By Bob Brody I grew up in a house across the street from a firehouse. Every time the siren wailed, signaling an emergency somewhere in our suburban New Jersey town of Fair Lawn, the volunteer firefighters came scrambling. They pulled up to the curb, tires screeching, and leaped over a wooden fence. Within minutes, the garage door would rise and out into the daylight would come the bright red fire engine. Men decked out in long coats, high boots and helmets rode along its sides. Down the driveway, the truck would rumble, its siren blaring, with our local firefighters once again off to save the …