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February 28, 1985 was a Thursday, and I was thirteen years old.
The day started out differently than usual. At the time I had a paper route, delivering for The Commercial Appeal. Every morning we'd be up early to get the morning paper delivered before school time. My parents would drive; most usually Daddy would be the one. We enjoyed the morning time together. He taught me that it would be more personal that if, instead of throwing a rolled paper into their driveways, I should drop the flat newsprint at the doorstep. Indeed, the gesture was well-received by my customers. We'd make the rounds, sliding papers across wide porch floors. If your paper was delivered to your back doorstep, and you had a small screened-in porch, I'd get the paper into your kitchen floor, if you'd opened the inner door to enjoy the cool morning air with breakfast. But this Thursday morning was different, in that he got up much earlier than normal and ran the route himself. I never knew why; indeed to this day I do not know.
In Carrollton, most of the local merchants and business owners would close their shops on Thursday afternoon. I don't know when, why or how this practice got started, but it was their respite from a five- or six-day work week. Spring was upon us, and around our house Thursday afternoon was yard-cutting time. My grandparents lived directly across the street, so we shared in the yard work. My granddaddy owned a small grocery store just down the street from where we lived, and my grandmother ran a rural mail route. Going to school that morning, I knew we'd be in for leaf-raking and grass cutting when school was done for the day. The day was sunny and a bit warm for February, but Old Man Winter was tired and willing to yield his grip to the vibrancy of a young and promising spring.
Daddy worked for the state parks system. As I remember, I don't think he was home when we left for school that Thursday. He'd run the paper route on his own, then I assume had gone to work.
The school day was typical and of no particular notoriety. We were in the eighth grade, with about thirty of us in my class. Most of us had grown up together, forming friendships as early as kindergarten, if not earlier. We went through the normal cycle of algebra, English, history, science, and study hall. I recall a few fleeting mental images of study hall foolishness that afternoon, sitting at the far back table in the library, next to the window. Beyond that, it was just another day.
Now home from school, it was yard work as usual. Between the routine of the day and the actions of time, there are no outstanding memories, aside from the knowledge that I would be glad when we were done. But it would be a nice evening, not too cold yet not too hot. It wouldn't be long until the honeysuckle would be blooming, and lightning bugs would be telegraphing their intentions to would-be suitors in the insect world.
Then the alarm came. Granddaddy and Daddy both were volunteer firemen in town. Granddaddy was the Assistant Chief at the time. I'd been privileged to "start early", as I usually tell folks. They'd let me start going with them to fires about a year earlier. I'd even been allowed to sit in on a week-long training from the state fire academy the summer of 1984. With my certificate in hand, I thought I was something. The firemen, all family friends, let me hang with them and do various "go-fer" tasks on the fire ground. Laying hose, hooking up the hydrant, washing and rolling hose after a fire, things like that. It was good for me, as it kept me out of trouble and under they eye of responsible people.
That Thursday afternoon a little past 4:00 PM the town's fire alarm cried out. We dropped our yard work and piled into Granddaddy’s truck to see what was the matter. When we turned the corner at the end of the street, the answer was evident in the thick column of black smoke flooding the sky from across the bridge in North Carrollton. Something big was burning. Down the hill and across the bridge and to a full stop in front of the local clinic, people were gathering and looking as Chaos and Change were lurking in the shadows, and we just didn't know it yet.
The two-story heavy timber and masonry construction building originally served as a hotel in another century. Progress had brought change, and on that Thursday the building was a hardware store. An addition to the rear of the store provided room for lumber cutting and storage. Black-brown smoke with some yellowish tinge belched from the union of these two buildings. The town's fire engine was parked just off one corner, and men were moving a heavy 2 1/2 inch line down an alleyway that separated the fire from a long row of businesses. We had exposures to protect, and if we didn't, a large portion of the town's economy would be gone. This would be a fight, as the hardware store and lumber area offered rich and plentiful fuel for the fire to consume.
The job of moving a heavy, bulky 2 1/2 inch hose line is difficult at best. A few men had found an opening to the fire building, and were attempting to reach the seat of the fire. Along with several others, I joined in the effort to help the nozzlemen move and manage the line. There were probably four to six people on the hose, and I felt like the right place for me to be was at the end of this group. To our right were the exposures, and the fire building was to our left, still belching acrid smoke, with little flame visible. Air currents around the buildings kept some smoke low, but it wasn't unbearable. Everyone was concentrated on finding the seat of the fire, but were hampered by lack of access to the store and storage areas. Some were making quick entries into the front of the hardware store area to recover whatever items they could lay their hands on.
Time often seems to stand still at times like this, or, more likely, we lose sense of how much time elapses. What seemed like only seconds was, in truth, probably several tens of minutes. I distinctly remember two or three firefighters making their way around the building, passing our location. Daddy was in the group. I'm not sure if they were searching for better access points, if they were trying to get a complete idea of the totality of the event, or if they were just getting from one point to another. I do, however, distinctly remember how red and flushed their faces were, whether from smoke, exertion, or both.
I'd not seen him before on that Thursday, and was a bit surprised to see him there. We exchanged quick, worried glances, and I asked if he and the others "needed air", meaning self-contained breathing apparatus. He quickly shook his head "no" and he, together with the others, went further down the alley into the smoke.
More time passed, seemingly more slowly than it really did. Despite the noise and the confusion, things seemed to have settled into place. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary.
Then it happened.
The specific sequence of events is too co-mingled in my memory to separate them into distinct threads for this writing. Some, however, stand out. First was the mighty and thunderous rattle of bricks falling onto the tin covering that served as an awning over the front door and windows of the hardware store. The awning joined the front of the building between the first and second floors, and extended ten feet or so in front of the store, and was held up by wooden beams. The sound of masonry onto metal was followed instantly by ground-shaking impact as the bricks landed. Debris, sand, and mortar dust kicked up into the air with some velocity, stinging our exposed skin. There really wasn't much time to react. Those of us on the hose dropped it and sought shelter behind the nearby fire engine. A brief moment of silence that seemed to never end followed. Before the dust even settled, the silence was broken. My first memory was that I hear someone screaming.
Confused, I got up and walked toward the rear of the engine to see what was going on. Two sights were then forever burned into my mind...someone pushing my mother backwards across the street, and my grandfather wiping his brow and moaning "What will we do....what will we do now?" I remember being confused, but as many people have experienced, there comes a time that you just know, but you don't want to admit that you know. Stage 1 of Grief: Denial.
The clinic across the street became the focus of attention; the two doctors there were long-time family friends. Our fire chief had suffered a blow to the head from bricks, resulting in a severe concussion. It was reported that two others were trapped beneath the rubble. Denial was strong, I didn't want to admit, nor did I want to hear that one of those two was my dad.
Ambulances were summoned. Confusion seemed to rule the day now. We were directed into the clinic to wait. I was standing behind the receptionist's counter when Denial gave way to Anger. A gurney rolled into the lobby and down the hall passing our spot. The long yellow turnout coat was pulled up high over the head of the person lying face-down on it. Khaki work pants held a pair of twisted legs that ended in a pair of blue tennis shoes that I knew all to well.
I don't remember who said it. I'm sure one of our doctor-friends broke the news. It was beyond hope, and absolutely nothing could be done.
We were briefly moved down the street to a house of someone we knew who offered us their home until we could be taken back to ours. If time had seemed to stand still earlier, it had ground to a halt now. I don't remember how we got from there to home. Much of the next several hours are now completely lost to time.
Help had come from all around. I remember late that night the fire chief from a neighboring town coming to my grandparent's door to extend his condolences to my mother, sister, and me. It was a surprise to see him standing in the doorway in his turnout gear, a man we'd never met, but was visibly shaken at the day's events. He stopped by on their way out of town. Many countless others came over the next few days.
Somewhere in the process I'd pulled some muscles in my back, requiring a visit to the doctor for medication. It was painful to stand for the many hours at the funeral home the next evening, but I was determined to not miss speaking to anyone. We were overwhelmed with the volume of people that came. These hours and days moved more quickly, so much so that they are now just a cloud of brief images. Flashing red lights in the procession; a state trooper solemnly holding an intersection; a flag being folded.
It is now thirty years later. Many of those memories are fading. But some ghosts still remain, and perhaps shall never die. I should want that they would not die, either.
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Epilogue-
I'm lucky, by some standards, to be where I am today. One of only nine people in all of Mississippi to have the job that I have as an emergency response coordinator in our state's public health emergency preparedness program; a former county emergency manager and fire coordinator; communications officer; and currently a hazardous materials technician, emergency medical technician, and firefighter. I cannot count the number of fires, wrecks, floods, tornadoes, ice storms, snow storms, hurricanes and other things I've seen in 30 years. In all that time, though, the events I've described above set forth three rules I try to work under, and teach at every opportunity, lecture, or in any class I'm teaching: Rule #1 is I go home, without exception. There are people that like to see me, and having my name carved in stone and cast in bronze isn't what I want for them. Rule #2 is if you're working with me, and I can help it, I'll make sure you go home too. Rule #3 says that I expect you to abide by the same rules, accordingly.
Stay safe, look out for those closest to you, and expect no less from them.
Epilogue-
I'm lucky, by some standards, to be where I am today. One of only nine people in all of Mississippi to have the job that I have as an emergency response coordinator in our state's public health emergency preparedness program; a former county emergency manager and fire coordinator; communications officer; and currently a hazardous materials technician, emergency medical technician, and firefighter. I cannot count the number of fires, wrecks, floods, tornadoes, ice storms, snow storms, hurricanes and other things I've seen in 30 years. In all that time, though, the events I've described above set forth three rules I try to work under, and teach at every opportunity, lecture, or in any class I'm teaching: Rule #1 is I go home, without exception. There are people that like to see me, and having my name carved in stone and cast in bronze isn't what I want for them. Rule #2 is if you're working with me, and I can help it, I'll make sure you go home too. Rule #3 says that I expect you to abide by the same rules, accordingly.
Stay safe, look out for those closest to you, and expect no less from them.
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