Seattle Decembers are misty and steel-gray, like the Navy frigates and aircraft carriers that silently ply our waterways. Three or four times each winter a heavy, wet Puget Sound snow bends the cedar boughs and hemlock branches, and coats the salal and ferns that carpet the forest floor with white wonder. It blankets and crusts our curving, winding roadways, turning every hill into a toboggan course for kids and adults who wish they still were.

For a fire station lieutenant, it also fills the nights with fenderbenders, abandoned vehicles and power outages. I get precious little sleep on snowy shifts, but the joy our icy visitor brings to children is worth the commotion and confusion.

The pre-Christmas snow assault had been underway for two hours, and my station had already responded to three rush hour accidents. Fresh coffee was brewing, a practice we usually reserve for mornings and afternoons at station 14, but a task we resort to on evenings when all indicators point to a sleepless, hectic night. I was sure the knock on the firehouse door was a stranded motorist, or a passerby reporting yet another accident on the busy fourlane just beyond our station ramp. I was wrong.

I guessed her to be 35ish. She was a slightly built, auburn-haired woman who stood outside the doorway, smiling through the silver dollar sized flakes of snow. I invited her in and offered her the first sampling of our firehouse brew, making her laugh out loud with my comment about not having a sharp knife handy to cut it with. She accepted my offer, kicking the crusted snow off her boots as she entered. She lugged a bulging, kitchen-size garbage bag in her left hand, leaning slightly out of balance to compensate for its weight.

She shook the snow out of her hair and blew on her hands while I poured a cup of the pungent firehouse java. "What do you take in it?" I said over my shoulder. "Just black, thanks", she replied.

I carried the two steaming cups across the kitchen, setting mine on the table and handing the other to her. She promptly wrapped both hands around the mug, absorbing the warmth into her fingers. She smiled and thanked me. Between sips we speculated as to whether or not the early snow meant a brutal winter bearing down on us. She laughed again when I told her I was going to make a ton of extra money by setting up a chain and stud installation service outside our bay doors.

I looked down at her white plastic bag. She must have seen the question flicker across my face because she smiled, and answered before I could ask. "I couldn't bring myself to come here for the first three years" she began. Her voice trembled a little as she spoke. I'm sorry it's taken me so long to say "thank you", but well, here I am."

The picture was clearer now, yet I still didn't have all the puzzle pieces. "Ma'am?", was all I could manage.

She tilted her head and motioned, gesturing toward the bag she'd placed gently on the entryway tile. “These were my son's". Protruding from the top of the bag was a buck-toothed, charcoal-brown beaver. Below the beaver I could see an assortment of two dozen other stuffed animal toys. They looked like a band of mutinous zoo critters preparing for a breakout.

When she told me his name, the last puzzle piece fit. He had been another victim of our highway several years ago. Another heartbreaking loss, a child we couldn't save. He had died just prior to the holidays. I can't imagine there ever being a good time for your child to die, but it seems having to endure such a devastating loss as holidays approach would add a final twist of cruelty.

For a moment, words failed me. I could think of nothing to say, so I said nothing. I stared at the droplets of moisture in her hair, the only remaining evidence of the falling snow outside. She took a deep breath, smiled, and said "I can't find a use for them now, so I was wondering if you could give them away." She paused. "I mean, to kids who need them."

Like many other fire departments, our medic units carry a supply of stuffed animals. When a child is hurt or sick, a teddy bear may not ease the pain, but it brings comfort. It's a buddy who understands, and one who doesn't complain if he's squeezed too tight. This woman knew about our teddy bear giveaway program, and was offering a very special collection.

I thought about asking, "Are you sure?" but didn't. The look in her eyes told me she hadn't arrived at her decision lightly. "Thank you", was all I managed. I thought carefully, then added, "I don't think you'll ever know how many little folks you'll touch by doing this." "I hope you're right," she said. "I'm sure he'll be happy to know he's sharing with someone who needs help."

"Not gonna finish that coffee?" I asked. She was already heading for our front door, leaving the still steaming, half full cup next to mine on the table. "Nope. I need to get home before it really gets bad."

I held the door open for her and told her to drive safely. She laughed again and said, "I'd better. I don't wanna be your next patient!" She paused for a second, turned, and said "Thank you".

I waved and responded, "Thank YOU! And Merry Christmas!"

The station tones went off again, this time dispatching my rescue crew to a woman in labor. Forty seconds later the white and blue medic unit rocketed out of the station and onto the highway, its blazing twinsonic beacons reflecting off the swirling snow. Alone, I returned to my coffee and the bag of stuffed animals.

I knelt beside it, pulling the furry little creatures out one by one. A stuffed hippo, a green and purple teddy bear, a bald eagle with an extraordinarily large beak and limp wings that wrapped around his torso.

I wondered how many memories the bag contained. How many times a little boy had drifted off to sleep cradling one. How many had heard a childhood secret whispered, how many a bedtime prayer?. I thought of my son , A.J., and his collection of stuffed dinosaurs. In this mother's situation, could I, would I ever have the courage to give such precious mementos away? I gathered the stuffed animals and put them back into the bag, then placed it carefully in our supply room. The next morning I told the oncoming crew about our new supply of cuddlies.

The days are getting shorter again, the nights colder, and the holidays are approaching. It's been almost a year since that mom gave us her unique gift. I haven't spoken to her since. She hasn't stopped by or called. But if she does, I know exactly what I'm going to tell her.

I'll tell her about the nine year old little girl whose house burned. She never let go of that gray hippopotamus. Or the ten year old whose leg was shattered in three places after being thrown from a horse. At first he didn't want the brown and white beagle, but five minutes later was clutching it tightly against his chest. And the snow-white, 8 inch tall teddy bear we gave the five year old with a 104 degree fever. We named it Fritz, and it made a sick little boy smile.

Those are only the stories I know. There are many I haven't heard, and probably never will. I know this: With each stuffed animal there is a special story made possible by a mother's gift of love. A tale of adversity, of pain and fear, interwoven with a strand of comfort only a stuffed animal could bring. For each toy a woman's son once cradled, there is now a rainbow in another family's storm. Could there be a more perfect way to chisel your child's legacy on the walls of history?

- Aaron Espy (c)

BIO on Lt. Aaron Espy:

At first glance, this fire fighter looks like a typical American male. He drives a Ford pickup, plays softball, lifts weights. He lives a simple, uncomplicated life 30 minutes west of Seattle. But lurking below the vanilla exterior is something more unusual. Lieutenant Aaron Espy is a writer and a poet.

"I write about a fire fighter's world," says Espy. "The exhilaration of saving a life, the devastation of losing a brother, and every experience, every emotion in between."

For years Espy was a "closet writer", penning his prose and poetry for his own mental health. Ironically, it was the January, 1995 death of a friend and fellow fire fighter in a Seattle warehouse fire that brought his work into the sunlight.

He is best known within the professional fire service for his unique brand of firehouse poetry, with over 40 of his fireground poems having seen print in newspapers, books and magazines. Several of his works have been transformed into inspirational plaques, and one marks the base of an IAFF monument in Colorado Springs, Colorado.

Politically speaking, Espy is a unique breed. While he considers himself a supporter of traditionally conservative issues, he is fiercely loyal to his IAFF brotherhood. This internal struggle between personal belief and professional interest is often reflected in his writing.

In addition to his poetry, Espy's work appears frequently in his state's union publication, Washington Professional Firefighter. As a local columnist for the Kitsap County's West Sound Sun, his musings on the 911 world are regularly read by the general public. He is also a regular contributor for Northwest Parent, a corporation that publishes parenting magazines throughout the Pacific Northwest. He has also recently published his first book.

Espy currently serves as a lieutenant with Kitsap Fire District 7. He is married with three children.