*I’ve been away for a while for good reasons that I will
tell you all of soon, but I feel like today my return to blogging should be one
of reflection and of reverence.*
All across America, in little towns much like the one I grew
up in, resources (both monetary and people themselves) are limited. These little towns are served solely by fire
departments of volunteers. Volunteers
who go to their “regular” job then devote their remaining hours to training for
and responding to accidents, chemical spills, house fires and the like. My dad was/is/always will be one of those
brave and dedicated individuals.
From the time I was old enough to retain childhood memories,
I can remember my dad going to work every day, only to come home and be “toned
out” to any number of things for the local VFD.
Supporting his family came first and foremost but his true passion, the
passion for being a firefighter, came in at a very close second. I could tell from the first time I watched
my dad put on his bunker gear where his heart was. He couldn’t get out the door fast enough and
he was off to do his duty.
Some days he would come home with a smile despite the ash
and soot that blackened his face. He
couldn’t be more excited to detail the days (or nights) events to my mom and
me. Other days, the silence was almost
deafening. I had never seen my dad truly
cry, but I always wondered if those streaks down his face were that of sweat or
tears. It was obvious that those days
had been the most trying and he was struggling with the life or lives that he
was unable to save.
Growing up around the fire department I gained a deep
respect for the many days and sleepless nights these men and women endure. Despite being an “only child” I have
accumulated around a dozen “brothers” who are willing to not only lay down
their lives for my dad and each other but for complete strangers without
hesitation. Despite the dangers, I never
doubted that my dad was coming home from wherever he has responded to. Whether he was fighting a blaze in the Daniel
Boone National Forest, battling a house fire, or cleaning up a gas leak, he was
always home and safe. I understood my
dad’s passion for what he did and his willingness to sacrifice life and limb
for his brothers and sisters, or at least I thought I did.
On that clear September morning my Mom dropped me off at
school as she always did. I had just
started 8th grade and my 1st period class that morning
was “work-study” as the office assistant to the Attendance Clerk. The TV in the front office lounge was barely
above a mute and was programmed to the news as it always was. I started the day filing forms and paperwork
as I did every day. But that day was not
an “everyday” type of day. That day our
view of our country and our world would be changed forever.
I cannot describe the fear and the shock that I felt as I
was glued to the news footage that day.
My mind, as I’m sure everyone elses did, was racing. Were we truly safe there in small town
America? What will happen next? Why did this happen? I just wanted to go home. I wanted to hug my
parents and hide from all the sadness and the hurt and the broken hearts and
pretend like the country I lived in was and would always be the safest place on
earth.
The end the school day bell rang and it was time to go
home. I couldn’t get out to my mom fast
enough. We rode home together and talked
about how the day had unfolded. The
short drive to my childhood home passed slowly.
The TV was still on the news when we arrived. My dad had a stack of VHS tapes of which he
was recording every second of footage from the screen. He would go on to spend days and sleepless
nights recording every bit of information about that day. The preliminary numbers of those lost were
already rolling in and New York’s finest firefighters, police officers and EMS
personnel were among the lives lost. Our
nation had a broken heart and a defeated spirit and fear instilled into their
very being. My dad did not know any of
those brave men and women personally but I learned that day that any loss of a
brother or sister was a loss to the firefighting community as a whole. I saw that somber look on my father’s face
that I had seen before. He may not have
shed a tear in front of me that day, but I knew that on the inside, his heart
was aching as the death toll of his brothers and sisters as well as his fellow
Americans rose. I know my dad would have
done anything to be able to go up to New York and help find those who were lost
and lay those brave men and women to rest with honor and respect.
That day, I learned what true sacrifice was. I understood the immense love someone has for
their fellow human that they would lay down their life for them. I understood what it was like to stand
together and pick up the pieces when the world we knew came crashing down. I had experienced true and sensational fear
as well as an overwhelming sense of pride in my country and those who vow to
defend it both here and abroad.
12 years have passed since those events unfolded before our
eyes. It’s hard for me to believe that
there are students in Middle School, like I was on that day, who will only read
about what happened. They will only
watch recorded images of the things that flashed live across the TV that
morning and the days after. They will
not (and I hope never will) experience the uncontrollable fear that gripped the
nation as we waited to see what would come next. I do hope that they will experience the great
pride in knowing they live in a country where there are men and women who are
willing to give their lives for others.
I hope they will understand and not judge when they see a tear flow down
the cheek of someone who is re-living that day.
It is my hope that they too will come to understand the love of humanity
that I finally understood on that fateful day.
We have risen from the ashes, we have united as one, we have
endured and we have persevered. On this
day, more than any other, we remember the true meaning of strength, courage,
commitment, endurance, and sacrifice. We
remember. Today and always.
No comments:
Post a Comment