One sunny day in August 1925, my mother, Irma Scott, did a very courageous thing: she decided to take five little kids on an all-day outing to one of the big parks in Indianapolis. Our destination could only be reached by a long ride on two different street cars and no small amount of foot work, too.

We were ecstatic. Not only would we get to take an exciting ride on the street car, but we knew there would be lots of kids at the park to play with and plenty of playground equipment to explore and conquer.

So we started out from our home at 6519 Ferguson Street in a very happy mood. Our little stair-step brood included my older sister, Evelyn, my three younger brothers, Wally, Howard and baby Tom, and I. All went well until we crossed over the canal and were coming abreast to Firehouse 32. Up from the canal staggered a horrible looking mad dog with water and foam dripping down from his jaws. Before any of us could do anything to stop him, the dog went straight to Howard and sank his teeth in the little boy's arm.

The ensuing screaming and hollering alerted the firemen of Firehouse 32 and it seemed like, in an instant, they were there. They immediately went into action and herded us to safety in the firehouse. They bandaged Howard's wound and then tracked down the dog who had run back down to the canal. They shot him and called the animal control people to come pick him up. They assured Mother that Howard would be alright and gave her all the information she needed to get him started on a series of shots that he would have to have to protect him from getting the dreaded disease of Rabies.

All this was done so quickly and competently that, before we knew it, we were having a great time exploring the firehouse and climbing around on the fire truck. The firemen were so kind and showed us their gear and equipment and let us try on their fire helmets.

We all survived the trauma of that day without ill effects, so this story has a happy ending. But I never forgot that day and how competent and compassionate the firemen of Firehouse 32 had been. From that day on, I thought of them as my personal heroes and, all through my growing-up years in Broad Ripple, whenever I walked by the firehouse and remembered that day, I always had this warm, comforting thought: if ever disaster struck and I was in dire need of help I always knew they would be there.

Just as a footnote to this story, I'm proud to say that my brother, Tom Scott, grew up to become a fireman and served the people of Indianapolis for many years. Of course, he was, and still is, my hero, too.