By Anne Gagliano
There’s nothing more stressful than a seven-year-old boy’s birthday party. It is chaotic, it is loud, it is frantic, it is barely under control. The date is January 5, 1995, and I am hosting such an event for my son Rick. Rick’s actual birthday is January 1, but since New Year’s Day is a holiday that most families choose to celebrate together, we decide to do his “kid party” on the fifth instead.
One of the biggest dilemmas a mother faces when planning her little boy’s birthday party is where to have it. Six- and seven-year-old boys are quite rowdy and destructive, especially en masse. I already know this from experience, having planned such a party for my eldest son Michael just the year before. Michael’s birthday falls in late May, however, so his destructive buddies could be corralled outside in the yard where there is little that can be damaged. But I can’t do this for Rick’s gang, as his birthday is in the winter. So what to do? I have two choices: either face the destruction of the interior of my house or risk the humiliation of out-of-control little boys in a public place. I opt for humiliation over destruction.
Near our home there is a brand new McDonald’s with a big indoor play area. Again, it’s 1995, and these indoor playrooms are something new. It has giant slides and tubes and various crawl spaces, much like a large hamster cage, only for small humans. But the most coveted and appealing aspect of this new place is the ball pit. This cage-like area boasts an indoor trampoline covered waist deep (for short people, that is) in multicolored plastic balls—cutting edge stuff for 1995. I decide to host Rick’s party there. He’s thrilled at the prospect!
We arrive at the new McDonald’s at 5:00 p.m., along with 15 little guests and a few brave parents. Most parents, however, choose to bail and will return only when forced to. Our little group takes up an entire section of the restaurant. The place is decorated with balloons and colorful birthday napkins and cups. I add party favors and gift bags and a homemade cake. The kids all get funny hats and “Happy Meals.” It is perfect; it is chaotic at once, noisy and frantic beyond description, but wonderful at the same time. The stress of trying to keep up with running, scattering, crazy little boys for whom I am responsible threatens to be overwhelming, but I must keep things in perspective or I will miss the joy of the moment, which is watching my little boy have a perfect 7th birthday.
As our little party begins where we live north of Seattle, something else begins in the southern part of the city. On S. Dearborn Street in Seattle’s commercial district, a member of a local band shows up for practice. He notices smoke coming out of the Mary Pang Chinese Food Company’s warehouse. He calls 911. The Seattle Fire Department rolls up to this one-alarm fire and quickly takes action. The warehouse has several levels and multiple entrance points. Although this type of structure is typically quite dangerous, it appears to be a very small fire on the lowest level, so the crew is not overly alarmed. They quickly contain the visible fire on the ground floor and are confident it is nearly out. They are wrong–dead wrong. Unbeknownst to them, for they have no floor plan of the building, this warehouse has a basement, and it is fully engulfed in flames, assisted by accelerants raging undetected beneath where they stand.
I’m frustrated; I can’t get Rick out of the ball pit. I can’t get any of the kids out. They roll and jump and bury themselves in the colorful plastic orbs, unconcerned with my schedule. It’s time to eat and open presents—it’s getting late—we must move along. But I mutter to myself again to keep it all in perspective, they’re just little kids; don’t let agitation ruin the joy of the moment. I relax, smile, and take pictures of my little boy buried in balls.
At the warehouse, the fire is not contained. They’ve called for more crews; it is no longer a one-alarm fire. Eleven firefighters are on the ground floor, baffled by the heavy heat and visible smoke with no visible source. Then suddenly the source reveals itself as the floor gives way. An unreported modification, or “pony wall,” has collapsed beneath them in the unknown basement. Six of the 11 firefighters manage to jump out windows and doors; one clings to the remaining fragments of the missing floor and pulls himself to safety. But four aren’t so lucky; they plunge helplessly into the raging inferno below. All hell breaks loose. What began as a one-alarm fire will become a five-alarm fire that will burn on through the long night.
I finally get Rick and his buddies out of the human hamster cage with its funky ball pit. He opens his presents—he cheers with delight and gratitude for each one. He cuddles with his firefighter dad as I take pictures. The kids all talk (or yell) at once. Their exuberant, high-pitched voices hurt my ears. They spill their drinks. They get frosting on their clothes and in their hair. They pop the balloons. I’m getting a headache. We’ve gone over our allotted party time, and I am now getting the evil eye from McDonald’s employees. The world of firefighting is the last thing on my mind in this moment, though Mike, even now, wears a firefighter sweatshirt. As I pack up gifts and return rowdy boys safely to their parents, I again try to keep it all in perspective. Though exhausting, little boys truly are joyful creatures, and I’ve somehow successfully completed yet another little boy party. Mike and I smile at each other over the heads of our children—life is good, we love being parents, we love being together. If I could give young firefighters and their families’ only one piece of advice it would be this: Slow down, enjoy the sweet moments, and drink them up to the fullest. Cherish each other every single day, for it can all change on a dime. It did for us and for other firefighter families that night of our young son’s birthday party. We were, in that moment, blissfully unaware of what would come crashing down around us when we later pulled into our driveway. Our perspective of the fire department was about to drastically change forever. In my next column, I will explain how.
Anne Gagliano has been married to Captain Mike Gagliano of the Seattle (WA) Fire Department for 27 years. She and her husband lecture together on building and maintaining a strong marriage.
