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We
celebrated our "silver anniversary" this year. No—we weren’t
celebrating our marriage (that will be 30 years in December).
We
were celebrating the 25 year anniversary of our house burning.
That
sounds strange to some people. But what could have been a major tragedy
was not, as no one in our family was injured and none of the
firefighters were hurt as well.
And
although we lost just about everything we owned and had very meager
insurance, the lessons we learned and the blessings that enriched our
hearts were cause to celebrate then, and to continue to celebrate now.
If
you are striving to lead the "simple life," as we try to do,
you’ve no doubt realized by now no one can truly live a life on their
own, no matter how they strive to be self-sufficient.
It
was the area’s volunteer firefighters who touched our hearts then and
continue today.
Most
rural areas in the South didn’t have even the most basic fire
protection through the years and our area was no exception. The two
"larger" towns in our county then (with the largest having a
population of about 4,000) both had fire and rescue departments but only
the largest town had even the semblance of a full time fire department
at the time.
A
few other areas of the county had just begun struggling fire and rescue
all- volunteer groups. But I had even written an article for our local
newspaper noting that, if you were in a wreck, you’d better hope you
were in one of those three areas of the county, because back then in
other areas you might be pretty much on your own until an ambulance
could reach you, about 45 minutes after the initial call.
The
day our house burned was cold, drab and rainy, as only an Alabama spring
day can be.
I
had worked that morning, gathering the local law enforcement and fire
news for our local newspaper. I came home at lunch and our not-quite-two
year-old played himself to sleep in his playpen. I took a brief nap
laying across our bed.
About
30 minutes later, I decided to tidy the house while Nathan still slept.
The washer was chugging and the dryer tumbled full of diapers (yes—you
know those cloth things you used to pin onto babies’ behinds!).
Suddenly
the smoke detectors began to sound. I walked from the kitchen to the
dining area, where my much-beloved piano and my theater-style organ,
were situated at right angles to a roll top desk my father had just
built for me.
I
could trace the fire racing across the wires in the ceiling which was
already smoldering.
I
grabbed Nathan out of his playpen with one arm and grabbed the phone
with the other, calling the sheriff’s office (this was way before 911
dispatch) and telling the dispatcher (who I had only two hours before
interviewed about the past week’s emergencies) my OWN house was
ablaze.
All
I could think about was getting Nathan out of the house, having attended
and covered enough fire meetings to know how quickly a person could be
overcome by smoke and other burning chemicals inside a house.
I
walked out with Nathan on my hip, both of us in our sock feet, as I
could hear the police and fire scanner in my small office blaring out
the fire call—to my own house.
We
stood in the drizzle at the end of the driveway and watched as Oneonta’s
fire truck came chugging up our dirt road, with police officer Gary
Bynum leading the way in his patrol car.
Soon
to follow were volunteer departments from Susan Moore, Rosa and Royal
and I think even a few Snead volunteers!
My
car was parked nearly against the house. A firefighter went inside the
blaze, retrieved my keys from the kitchen counter and moved my car,
which was filled with about 100 boxes of Girl Scout cookies we were
planning to deliver that afternoon after school!
I
was given a neighbor’s jacket to cover Nathan and soon found myself
seated in a volunteer firefighter’s warm pick-up truck. When Beth and
Jannea arrived home on the school bus, and my husband, Roy, arrived home
from work, we were all still there.
What
had been our "dream home" in the woods, was now mostly a
smoldering mess of twisted beams and soggy carpet.
My
piano, a special gift years before from my parents, was a chunk of
steaming charred wood. My organ simply melted. My camera equipment did
the same.
But
there was a stack of photo albums the firefighters saved. While the
photos around each page were lost, sitting in the middle of each page
was one photo I could salvage! How those priceless memories mounted up!
There
were other precious finds. A tiny pink stuffed mouse Jannea treasured
was found in the girls’ bedroom.
Tiny
bits of our lives we could save and treasure.
All
but two of the men who responded that day were volunteers. Volunteers
who not only left their warm homes or jobs in the middle of that dreary
day to come to our rescue, but who had also spent countless hours in
drills and training so they would be ready when disasters struck.
Since
that day our county has been blessed with additional volunteer fire
departments, as well, as a great deal of newer equipment and more
complex training and educational opportunities for those volunteers.
Now
if you have a wreck, a house fire or a medical emergency just about
anywhere in our county, aid will be by your side in a matter of minutes
thanks to those many dedicated volunteers who have not only given of
their time for calls but have also pushed for more governmental help.
Some
in our county even now boast new fire engines and rescue trucks thanks
to Homeland Security Grants.
But
I can tell you this, it’s not all the fancy red equipment that
matters. The training is important and I will ever be thankful Oneonta’s
paramedics knew just what to do when they came to our home on the night
of February 11th when my husband was having a heart attack; but the
training is not the most important thing either.
What
IS important are the dedicated men and women who give their time, and
even sometimes their very lives, to being ready and on call when their
neighbors experience an emergency.
Whether
they are with a paid department or are volunteers, everyone I’ve ever
met has given waaaaaay more back than any salary could ever pay.
A
few years back, my then 80-year-old mother, my then ten-year-old
grandson and two of my mother’s 80-year-old friends were injured when
their car was "tee-boned" by a car speeding over a hill and
driven by a bounty hunter.
I
rushed to the scene as my grandson was loaded onto a helicopter and as
my mother was loaded into an ambulance. But I was greatly reassured.
Doing everything from directing traffic to providing triage were those
same dedicated volunteers and medics I had watched progress through the
years.
Recently
some local firefighters entered a burning apartment and pulled out a
woman whose health problems had prevented her from leaving the fiery
tomb. They were trained, they were wearing the right turnout gear and
the right equipment, but it was their personal caring and their personal
risk that made the difference.
I
love the simple life and simple times.
But
there is nothing more basic and more simple—and yet nothing more
profound—than someone being willing to lay down their own life to help
others. |
