A Christmas Past, A Fire Service Present
DEPARTMENTS
EDITOR’S OPINION
As yet another year draws all too quickly to a close, we tend to find ourselves reminiscing about past events and ruminating future decisions. And for some of us, the memories of 1985 may not be pleasant ones.
As a whole, the fire service was hard hit with an extraordinary number of fires on both the west and the east coasts. We’ve also suffered several black eyes in the public opinion arena. Two from a populace who, rightly so, feels that life and property take precedence over the payment of fire protection fees; and another from civilians who mistakenly believe that donning turnout gear renders firefighters impervious to flying bullets.
Department-wise, some of us may have been hard hit by municipal cutbacks.
Personally, we have all been hard hit, tried to the limits of our endurance this year and every year. It’s part of the profession. It’s part of the profession to crawl blindly through debris-ladened hallways, to operate in thick acrid products of combustion, searching for life in a life-threatening, fire-ravaged shell. It’s part of the profession to have shards of glass puncture our hands and shins, to have burning embers sear our skin around collars and boots.
We remember learning of a brother firefighter caught in a fire building, becoming disoriented, his air pack depleted. We remember standing at attention, shoulder to shoulder with our unit, snapping a salute in final tribute to a brother’s last run.
It’s hell.
1 remember a time about 10 years ago. I was a truck officer stationed in a typical inner-city neighborhood. And it was almost Christmas.
We had decided to invite our families into the firehouse to celebrate the holidays We moved the apparatus onto the street, hung wreaths and holly, and decorated a tree. A turkey with all the trimmings was being carved in the kitchen.
One of the men, dressed as Santa, slid down the pole with a hearty “Ho, ho, ho,” a bag of gifts slung over his shoulder Parents had placed a secretly coveted toy in the sack, enjoying the look of amazement on their children’s faces as Santa handed them a cherished wish.
Everyone was involved in the festivities, caught up in the celebration and sharing in the love and warmth of family and good friends.
No one noticed them slip in. A six-year-old with his younger brother in tow were craning their necks from the back of the crowd to see St. Nick. They listened as Santa exchanged confidences and conversations with their peers; smiled at the attractively wrapped presents specially chosen for each child. The boys’ eyes were alight with excitement, their faces aglow with a firm belief in the implausible.
I wandered toward them.
The smaller one chatted incessantly, fidgeting with delight.
“You’d better shut up,” the older one warned, “or we won’t hear him call our names.”
No one saw the smile fade from a firefighter who overheard that futile conversation. No one saw him quietly slip out the side door and into the ghetto’s bustling, overpriced commercial center, and return “quick as a wink.” The shadowed figure stuffed something in Santa’s bag of gifts and then blended into the diesel oil encrusted firehouse walls.
Word spread like wildfire. A house full of tough hombres stretched their necks to watch the playlet on the apparatus floor.
“James and Jerome Washington.” thundered the jolly red figure.
Everyone saw four eyes strain at their sockets and two smiles stretch facial skin beyond endurance.
No one saw the tears of joy on 75 sets of cheeks or heard that extra beat in 75 chests The feeling of goodwill toward men enjoyed in the best of times by men who are often recognized only in the worst of times burned away all the bad memories.
A firm handshake and a clap on the back to you all from all of us. A very merry and blessed holiday season and a most joyous New Year. Be safe.
