Life Imitating Art, Imitating Life

Does life imitate art, or does art imitate life? Maybe a little of both.

I've been getting back into the working groove. While looking for work - something very few of us like doing - I've come to realize that if I'm going to make any money writing, I really need to write. (Yes, I heard that. You were thinking, Well, duh! I was thinking it, too.) I also need to send the writing out to try selling it. Same goes for my photography. But let's get back to the writing...

Much of my writing has a sliver of my real life in it. If you've ever glanced at my e-portfolio and read You Asked or Night Walk on the fiction and poetry page, you'll see art imitating life. Ditto for the poetry. Other short stories, such as Another Day In Paradise, have their start from something I've read. And other stories start with a dream. Most writers (and other artists) are like this, to some extent. I've always maintained that if you know an artist, it's best not to get on that person's bad side; it might come back to bite you.

A side note: That said (about how writing and art come about), can you imagine the kind of life and/or dreams Stephen King has had? I'd hate to get him p.o.ed.

So...A few days ago, I decided to take a nap. It was a Saturday, I'd gotten maybe four hours of sleep the night before, then got some work done around the house. A nap was definitely in order...At one point, I was at that sweet spot where I wasn't completely asleep, but I wasn't really awake. I was just sort-of drifting between levels of consciousness.

It was during this drifing that I half-dreamt, half-remembered something from my childhood. It went like this: We were living in Yorktown Heights, New York. Nice neighborhood, nice neighbors. Middle-class. Walking distance to Crompond Elementary School; at that time, it held grades kindergarten through sixth grade. I started kindergarten the year it opened; when I graduated in 1965, I was part of the first class to have its entire elementary school experience there.

When we lived in Yorktown, there were woods on three sides of the school, though some of the woods directly north of Crompond gave way to what, in memory, seems like tall grass and some sort of scrub brush. Neighborhood kids would play in the woods, skate on the small frozen pond on the edge of the driveway to school - the same pond that we'd catch tadpoles in in spring...

One year, during late summer (again, if memory serves me well), there was a fire. By a kid's imagination, it was huge, though in reality, it may have been more of a middling-sized fire. It was in the wooded area just northeast of the school grounds. A bunch of us kids heard the sirens, saw the fire trucks, and, naturally, had to check it out. This was exciting!

By the time the fire was almost out, the firefighters started to pack up their truck. The trucks pulled away one at a time. One of the last trucks had a couple of firefighters checking for hot spots before leaving. One of the firefighters, there with a crew of four or five, was checking the area where two of the neighborhood boys and I were walking. It seems that one of the two boys was my friend Robbie, who lived next door to us. We were heading toward home, talking excitedly about how cool it was that we got to see real firefighters putting out a real fire. Firemen, we called them back then, since the closest women could get to the fire department during the early 1960s was to join the ladies' auxillary, which meant bringing sandwhiches and drinks to the men. (See the note at the end.)

Anyway, the fireman reminded me a little of my cousin Dave. Dave was - is - thirteen years older than me, and his sister Janet is ten years older. I'd always loved both of them, and considered them like cool older siblings. This firefighter actually spoke to us kids, telling us to be careful, he didn't want to see us get hurt here at the fire scene.

Before we got to the dividing line between scrub brush and school grounds, the fireman cast one final glance around before heading back to his crew. At the same time, Robbie and the other boy headed off toward the school's playground to play in the afternoon's fading light while I continued on the path toward home.

I'd just gotten onto the school grounds for the shortcut to home when I saw it: flames and heavy smoke were coming from a corner where the scrub brush and woods merged. Fire! Immediately, I turned and ran for all I was worth. Far ahead, I spotted the young firefighter's helmet bobbing away from me.

"Hey!" I screamed. "Fire!"

The firefighter turned and ran toward me, yelling into his portable radio for help. "Where is it?" he called as he got closer.

By now, I was already running back in the direction of the flames. "This way! I'll show you!"

In a minute, we were where the fire had reignited and he'd radioed where to bring the pumper. It wasn't long before the fire was out. Just before the crew left, the looks-like-cousin-Dave firefighter told a man in a white shirt, "That's the girl who pointed out the fire." After making sure I was thanked, the younger man told me that when girls could grow up to be firefighters, he could picture me being one, then rustled my hair before climbing onto the back of the truck. As it rumbled off, heading back to the station, he waved good-bye and I waved back at him.

I couldn't wait to tell Robbie when I saw him tomorrow. Wow, would he be sorry he left for the playground!

Note: For the record, even during the 1960s, when I was a kid, I thought it horribly unfair that women could only join the ladies' auxillary and not become a firefighter. Also for the record, in March, 1980, six months after becoming a volunteer firefighter in Pinellas County, Florida, another woman and I were hired on as the first women firefighter trainees with another Pinellas County fire department. There was only maybe one other female firefighter (a paid one, anyway) in the county at that time, and she'd been on the job less than a year. In all, I was managed to be associated, either as a volunteer or paid firefighter with four area departments. Was it fun? Yup. Did I ever question my sanity about taking the job? Heck, yeah. Was I ever scared working a fire? Anyone who's worked the job for more than six months and says they've never been scared is either lying or crazier than anyone I'd ever want to work with.

I also figure that while the dream was triggered from remembering this, it felt like I was that kid again. I also plan to write a short story/essay about it. And Robert...you missed the good part!