He's the guy next door.

He's a man's man with sharp memory of a little boy who never got over the excitement of engines and sirens and smoke and danger

He's a guy like you and me with warts and worries and  unfulfilled dreams.

Yet he stands taller than most of us. He's a fireman. He puts it all on the line when the bell rings.

A fireman is at once the most fortunate and the least fortunate of men.

He's a man that savors life because he has seen too much death. He's a gentleman because he has too much of the awesome power of violent forces out of control. He's a man responsive to a child's laughter because his arms have held too many small bodies that will never laugh again.

He's a man who appreciates the simple pleasure of life . . . hot coffee held in numbed, unbending fingers . . . the flush of fresh air pumping through smoke and fire convulsed lungs . . . a warm bed for bone and muscle compelled beyond feeling . . . the camaraderie  of brave men . . . the divine peace of selfless service and a job well done in the name of all men.

He doesn't wear buttons or wave flags or shout obscenities and when he marches, it is to honor a fallen comrade.

He doesn't preach the brotherhood of man.

He lives it.