“The hero is the man  
who lets no obstacle  
prevent him from  
pursuing the values  
he has chosen.”   
Andrew Bernstein

It was the late 1960s. I was at home one night when my Dad’s fire department radio, which we kept on 24/7 in the kitchen, announced that there was a “working fire” at the corner of 9th & 12th Avenues in The City. I don’t recall where Dad had been earlier in the evening, but he was wearing a suit. I was sitting at the kitchen table wondering how 9th & 12th Avenues could be an intersection, since the two streets, as far as I knew, ran parallel to each other, north to south.

I got up from the table and asked Dad my 9th & 12th Avenue intersection question, explaining that there was a working fire at that location. Dad got up and walked into the kitchen to listen to the radio. The first thing he heard was a call for a 3rd alarm. He turned to me and said, “C’mon. Let’s take a ride.” He was off-duty, but firefighting was his life.

The next thing I knew, we were cruising up Vicente Street, then Taraval to 14th Avenue. At the top of the steep hill, we turned right on Quintara and right again on 12th Avenue. Dad parked the car halfway down the block and we walked quickly toward the fire apparatus parked in front of the burning home. Sure enough, at the end of the block, the street sign read 9th & 12th Avenues. A house on the other side of the street was fully engulfed in flames.

A hysterical woman was being told by one of the firefighters that the two women she claimed were in the home were not in the structure. He told her they had checked all the rooms. The woman insisted that the two elderly women never left their home and that she was sure they were still inside. 

Dad turned to me and said, “Stay right here.” The next thing I knew, Dad was entering the home in search of the two women.

I don’t recall how long he was inside the burning building. I remember it seemed like an eternity. I wondered how I would get home if anything happened to him. I was too young to drive, and the car keys were in his pocket.

Finally, Dad emerged from the home. He informed the firefighter who had been speaking with the two women that the elderly women were, indeed, inside the home. He found their bodies in the back downstairs room, apparently victims of smoke inhalation. 

I had not thought about that incident in many years, until last Thursday when I was walking the third segment of the Crosstown Trail with my friend, Mary. The walk took us up 9th Avenue to 12th on our way to 14th & Quintara. I noticed that two houses near the intersection were a notably different style than the others on the block. I’m guessing that the fire that night sixty years ago did enough damage to the neighboring house that both homes needed to be rebuilt.

The memories of that night were vivid as I stood at the intersection on Thursday. I remember thinking that night that my Dad was a hero, even though the two women had perished. My thoughts about him have not changed.