When I passed a firehouse on W 19th where a fire truck was going on a call, I had a recollection.
Long ago. Burt and I were passing a firehouse; one truck had just left and a fireman remained in the doorway. Burt engaged him in conversation and in minutes, we were looking at the gear. After trying it on, at the behest of the fireman, Burt affirmed that it was remarkably heavy.
“I don’t know how they get up and down the ladders,” he said.
Memory can be so random and spontaneous.
this is our life 
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