Sometimes when I tell this story I imply that I joined the Olive Fire Department—specifically, Station No.5 in the bucolic hamlet of Boiceville—because I’m an altruist, or because I wanted to help my neighbors or because I believe in service. And while some of those things are true now, I joined for one reason: they told me I couldn’t. It was 1975. I was a New York City Jew with an obsessive personality who had recently moved up the country and I didn’t want a garden—I wanted a farm. I didn’t want a kitten—I wanted livestock. So, when I was…
