We all come into our lives with a purpose to serve. We come here to do work. To
grow and heal is always a part of that, and sometimes playing is how we do that
work. Those of us who grew up with the near universal fascination with fire
engines, and watched Johnny and Roy respond with Squad 51 on our black
and white televisions in the 1970's, spent countless hours-- like my own four
year old son now does-- enacting different emergency scenarios in our
imaginative play. And for those of us who now do emergency response work
on either a professional or volunteer basis, work can still be play. All the difficult
and tedious situations I've faced in my twenty three years of working on
ambulances and fire engines are far outweighed by the "I can't believe they pay
me to do this!" moments. The opportunity to earn a living by helping people and
getting to go into dangerous situations where others aren't allowed in order to
resolve important crises is such a privilege . For those of us who do this work, it
really isn't a matter of choice-- it's in our blood. There's a crucial need, and like a
magnet it draws us in. To be "on the pipe" of a hose line fighting a fire, or
participating in the resuscitation of a patient in cardiac arrest, is in our hearts
where we want to be, making a difference. Not just talking about it, but actually
doing the work, getting the job done. It isn't for our own sakes, and it's more than
for the sakes of the victims or patients. It's because there's meaningful work to do--
for the sake of the work itself.
Vinny never shied away from work. If he heard a working fire declared over the
radio in some other part of the city while we were at the station, he would always
go over to the computer terminal and look up when we would be due if it became
a greater alarm. If he didn't know or trust the abilities of firefighters sent to fill
vacancies on Engine 26 for the day, he would have us to a "wet drill", pulling hose
lines and spraying water in the park. And he never complained about being "first in
and last out" when the crew who had done the most work putting out a fire had to
stick around the longest to complete the overhaul-- even if dinner had been waiting
on the table back at the firehouse for hours-- which is saying something, because
he loved food. Vinny wasn't the kind of boss to just stand around with a clipboard--
he would be the first to take a position at a backboard to help carry a patient down
stairs, or grab a tool if no one else beat him to it. "Many hands make light work" is a
phrase one hears not infrequently around fire crews. When anyone slacks off, every-
one else has to carry their weight too, so the way to gain respect in the fire
department-- or anywhere, really-- is to step up to do work, rather than avoiding it.
And Vinny had our respect, no doubt.
For Tony, work was more than something to not avoid-- it seemed to give him
pleasure to help other people and solve problems. One day when I relieved him in
the morning on Engine 26 and had to go off to medical refresher training all day, I
mentioned that the wiring harness in the door of my car was broken, which meant
that I couldn't open my fuel cap, and didn't have enough fuel in the tank to make it
back home or to my mechanic's. When I got back that afternoon, I found that he'd
spent most of the day at the firehouse, isolating the wire that was bad and splicing
in some wire he salvaged from an old lamp, not only resolving that problem, but
doing some body work reattaching a loose fender besides. When I tried to pay him
something from all the money he'd saved me, he refused, having genuinely enjoyed
the opportunity to figure out how to fix it.
Eighteen days before the fire, Tony came down to the fundraising breakfast that the
volunteer fire department was hosting where I live in Santa Cruz County. He
appeared in line, and sat by himself. Before I could break away from where I'd been
manning the french toast griddle, he'd introduced himself to the other people at his
table, and the one behind him as well. He had the ability to get away with saying
anything to anyone, which inevitably led to interesting conversations and human
contact. Afterwards, he stuck around as long as any of the volunteers, pushing a
broom and helping with the cleanup. After serving nearly thirty years as a paramedic
in San Francisco, he was within a year of retirement, and thinking about buying a
retirement home somewhere outside the city. France and Hawaii had been
possibilities, but when he met the volunteers and realized that he could keep playing
at the work he loved even after retiring, he began focusing on my neck of the woods.
Fifteen days before the fire, Tony came to visit again, to look at properties. We drove
around picking up real estate flyers and exploring the area. He met my wife and son,
who liked him immediately. We were then on the verge of getting a dozen chicks to
start our family farm, and he had plenty of stories and advice, being an urban chicken
farmer himself. And a sourdough bread maker. While most people would be content
buying eggs and bread at the supermarket, his curiousity about how to do that work
led him to actually take up the practice of those interests. Knowing something wasn't
enough for Tony-- he knew that life was about doing. And in the doing, comes feeling,
for how could one not love a chicken they'd taken care of since it was an egg, or a
loaf of bread one made from a sourdough mother older than oneself?
I'd been Vinny's paramedic on Engine 26 for the past four years, six out of nine twenty-
four hour watches every month, so we spent quite a bit of time together at work. But
while Tony had been one of my favorite people amongst the city paramedics since I'd
come onboard sixteen years ago, there were only a few occasions when I got to work
with him on the ambulance, or in surf-rescue training. Fire engines are staffed with just
one paramedic, so Tony and I never got to work together on Engine 26, seeing each-
other in passing during shift change in the morning, when I would relieve him to "go
home and let the chickens out". So, up until the fire took his life, I was looking forward
to spending more time with Tony after retirement than I had during the time he worked
for the city.
Ten Days before the fire, I had asked Tony for a shift trade, which would have put me
on-duty the day of the fire. As it happened, he needed another day off instead. Because
his death hit so close to home for me, I figure that on some level he and I worked out
who would play which role. He was more suited to be the one who sacrifices his life,
his character more exemplary and worthy of emulating, so he got that job. It's fallen
upon me to do the work of figuring out what redemption can come from the tragedy,
and articulating the words to help others realize it as well. That's why I'm writing this.
And it's also why you're reading it.
I spent most of my time at the firehouse during the week following the fire, being
supported and supporting those closest to the tragedy. We had the funeral to prepare
for, and Vinny and Tony's families to help get all the necessary things done. When we
went to Tony's house to rescue his chickens, I saw sitting on an old stove he'd been
restoring in his living room, a little red child's fire helmet, with Johnny and Roy and
Squad 51 on the shield.
Because I wasn't home, it necessarily fell upon my wife to explain to our son that
Vinny and Tony had died. He understands-- remembers, perhaps-- more clearly than
us adults, that death is just an inevitable part of life, a transition that actually gives our
lives meaning. He knows that Vinny and Tony will be "Forever In Our Hearts" as the sign
they made to put up at the memorial at the firehouse reads, next to a picture of the
candles on our windowsill they lit. My son wanted to place his little wind-up chick next to
Tony's candle, to keep him company. We know they're not really gone-- they're every-
where now-- everywhere we go, they will be with us, in our hearts, in that sacred space
within where God lives. But life isn't about thinking, or even feeling-- it's about doing. So
we have to turn away from looking back at what we've lost at some point, because as
long as we're still alive, there's work to do.
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