My family has a history of being drawn to fires and to helping others. Perhaps it started back in the late 1920s when Dad and his siblings hung around the neighborhood fire station or chased after horse-drawn fire engines to watch factory fires in Chicago. Or maybe it was when they listened to their Uncle Jim's stories of barn fires out in the country. It could have been the cold night in '61 when Dad drove his four children for an hour to watch his childhood parish at 19th and Peoria in Chicago go up in flames.

For certain it was when the old, red fire ambulance transported Mom when she had a heart attack. Dad asked how he could repay the volunteers, and they replied, “Join our fire department.” Three short rings on the phone and Dad grabbed his coat while one of us answered with “Cook.” When my twin brothers joined the department, it became “Three Cooks here.”

The culture of our volunteer fire department was different back then and was a big part of our family's social life. Water barrel fights and picnics were held on summer afternoons. Memorial Day and Fourth of July meant parades and food at the fire station. The annual firemen's dance helped purchase new Pirsch fire trucks. In the late '60s women didn't fight fires; we were responsible for cooking hot dogs, buying donuts and making coffee for the 3 a.m. barn fires.

As the town grew, it wasn't an easy transition for the volunteers in the fire department. A full-time fire chief was hired from the next town to take over what he previously had called the “Mickey Mouse fire department.” As full-time firefighters were hired and the district grew, the culture changed and divisions emerged in our fire community: career versus volunteers, old versus young, and even town versus town. Discipline and rules were foreign to the maverick volunteers.

Back then, I was jealous of the camaraderie that my Dad and my brothers had down at the firehouse. There was a work-hard/play-hard environment, and I wanted to be a part of it. I wanted to hang on the back of a fire truck and feel the adrenalin rush with lights and sirens. I wanted to see what my brothers saw in that black, smoky garage. I watched my brothers and their coworkers extricate people from mangled cars with increasing expertise. I saw them come home covered with soot, coughing their guts out. And I really wanted a blue light in my car.

I watched the twins grow from young boys vigorously wiping down fire trucks after a call, into firefighters in navy blue uniforms taking certification classes, and into “white shirts” who eventually traded silver badges for gold ones. But I've also seen my brothers become frustrated over these past 30 years. I've sensed that both had internalized the pain of burn victims, fatalities and ruined lives from senseless devastation. I've listened to their astonishment at the stupidity of human beings and their frustration toward increasing internal politics. I've also seen the dark humor that they use to relieve the pain.

People like me are not part of your brotherhood of firefighters. We don't pretend to be. But we are part of that group that encircles you and prays for you with every tone and alarm that sounds. The death of a firefighter, anywhere in this country, causes a chill as we realize once again how really dangerous your job is.

As they retire and the gold badges pass on to the next generation, I am very proud to say that my brothers, Bttn. Chief Daniel Cook and Bureau Chief Donald Cook, Lisle — Woodridge (Ill.) Fire Protection District, have served their community and fellow firefighters honorably and faithfully. In my eyes, my Dad and my brothers have set a very high standard for dedication and commitment to firefighting.

Godspeed.