My dad was a medical technician working the fire lines for the Red Cross, mostly in Southern California. At one he lost his long time best friend decapitated by a helicopter rotor. Hugh was standing on the bed of a truck and it backed up into it. I particularly remember when dad came home from that one, walked in the door and buried his weeping head in my mother's arms. They both stood there crying as I watched. Fires are dangerous in a lot of ways, possibly even to the children of firefighters. When Paul (my dad) came home after being up at an inferno, he'd be red as a beet and in a terrible brooding mood and would barely talk for a few days, unfortunately quite irritable. When I was younger I recall once asking my mother what was wrong with daddy. Her response was, "Honey, your father has been up at a fire, he'll be alright in a few days". She understood the deal. I always wanted that few days to happen quick. Big fires are terrible terrible...hearing about one going on always brings back memories.