(This is a reprint of a column I wrote last year, which appeared in my newspaper. It won me first place at the newspaper association contest. Someone on this site came across it online and asked me to reprint it, since it holds my copyright. ALWAYS happy to give props to you emergency/fire service peeps out there.)

" 'They' Are Volunteers and 'They' Answer the Call"
Last week, I was stopped in the grocery store by a woman who wanted me to “write something” for her.
She said her daughter had called 9-1-1 about a medical emergency at her home.
As this woman put it, “they took forever to get there.”
I asked who “they” are.
“The paramedics, or whoever they are!”
Then I asked how long “they” took to get there.
“Almost five minutes!” she exclaimed. “What do they get paid to do, anyway? You should write about that.”
Well, I thought about it a minute, then agreed with her.
I said I’d write something about it.
And here it is.
“They” are volunteers.
And “they” don’t get paid to do what they do.
In fact, in this county, we have no paid firefighters or emergency medical service (EMS) - better known as First Responders. When that ambulance or firetruck goes screaming by, those folks on board are volunteers.
“They” are not at the fire station round-the-clock, ready to jump into the truck a minute a call comes in.
“They” are at home or at work or fishing with their kids or having dinner with their spouse.
“They” have full-time jobs away from firefighting and “they” have families, which “they” abandon without warning when that alarm goes off.
At 3 a.m., when you’re asleep in your bed, “they” are jarred from their sleep by the piercing alarm of their pagers. Fumbling to quiet the alarm before their spouses and children wake, “they” rush from their darkened homes, zipping pants and pulling on unlaced boots as they go.
While you are snuggling deep into your warm bed, "they" are outside in the bone-chilling cold, kneeling alongside an upturned and mangled car, in the sleet and snow, holding the hand of a scared teenager who is hanging upside down in a seat, blood running down her face, screaming in pain, and begging for her Dad, while the rest of "them" are trying to cut the twisted metal to free her.
Sometimes, "they" are the ones holding the hands of your loved ones as they pass from this life.
And when you’re outside on a Sunday afternoon or Fourth of July, enjoying a cook-out or pool party with your family, that siren that goes off and makes you wonder what's going on? Well, “they” know what's going on: someone needs help and "they" must respond.
"They" suddenly spring from their place at the grill and "they" hand their spouses the barbeque sauce and rush out the door, calling out a request that someone save them some dinner.
It doesn’t matter if it’s 3 a.m. or 3 p.m. - when that alarm goes off, followed by the dispatcher’s call for action - “they” mobilize from all corners of town.
“They” rush to the fire station, where “they” have less than a minute to dress and get the trucks moving out the door.
And, by God, “they” do it.
That’s because “they” train, several nights a month. “which “they” don’t get paid to do. But “they” do it anyway, because “they” want to do their job right ... lives depend on it and “they” know it.
As a reporter, I’ve covered fires, car accidents, murders, suicides, and more. I’ve stood and watched as “they” - paid and volunteer firefighters and EMS - have done their job.
I’ve watched them fight hours, in the blistering heat of August and in the biting chill of January, to save homes of people “they” didn’t know.
I’ve watched EMS paramedics fight furiously to save a 2-year-old boy who had been trapped in a locked room in a house fire.
And I’ve watched as “they” accepted the crushing truth that boy was dead.
I listen to the emergency scanner all day at work and all night at home and it just never quiets.
A baby is having a seisure on this side of town.
A woman is having a heart attack on that side of town.
A child has gone missing on a trail outside town and it’s getting dark.
The calls for help never cease.
And the dedication of the volunteers who respond to those call never ceases either.
Leaving behind family gatherings, sleeping spouses, holidays, football games ... when the call for help goes out, “they” are there.
So, as promised, I am writing about how long "they" took to get there. Five minutes? "They" did pretty (censored) good.

(This is a copyrighted column from an actual newspaper - any unauthorized reproduction of this column without my permission is illegal and just plain not cool =)