I was in Publix when I passed three Palm Beach firefighters who were also shopping. Whenever I encounter a First Responder, I express my gratitude for all they do for all of us. Those I thank typically respond graciously before we all move on.
This time the men I thanked stopped. The senior of the three asked if ever I had called 911 for help. I told him I had. He remained silent, evidently waiting for me to say more. Something in his bearing prompted me to tell him not about contacting 911, but that I consider service a calling, not a job. I added that I had been a soldier in a long-ago war and feel a kinship with those who serve.
He nodded as though my response didn’t surprise him. He asked if I had visited their fire station. When I told him I hadn’t, he said, “We’re just across the road and we’d like you to come over and tell us your story.” I said I didn’t think I had a story to tell and was simply expressing my gratitude.
He said they had just returned from a call and I had told them something about the people they treat and whose lives they often save. He insisted I did have a story to tell and they wanted to hear it. I said I would think about their invitation. As I finished shopping, I decided not to go. I would be an intruder in a place I believe should be reserved for those who race to us in the midnight moments of our lives.
As I tried to sleep that night, I remembered each firefighter took the time to grip my hand and tell me he appreciated my reaching out to them. I feared I might offend them if I declined their invitation. The next morning, I went to Fire Station 66 on North Palmetto Park Circle.
I was greeted by the lieutenant in charge who told me the team that invited me was on its way back from a call. He insisted I sit at a table laden with food for the returning crew. “Help yourself,” he insisted, “The sandwiches and doughnuts are fresh and the coffee is too.” I knew the men must be ravenous after hours of emergencies and said I had just eaten.
When the crew drove into the station I expected them to rush to the food spread before us. Instead, they gathered around me, saying they were glad I had come. They began by asking about the 911 call I had made.
They sat silently as I struggled to tell them how expertly and kindly Palm Beach First Responders had treated my wife when she was stabbed awake by stomach pain. She died that night in Boca Raton Regional Hospital from septic shock inflamed by a massive infection.
When I mentioned we had been married for nearly seventy years, the crew reached out to touch my hand and shoulder, comforting me as firefighters like they had comforted Muriel six years earlier.
I tried to lighten the sadness I had brought to the table by telling them of my own service in a war fought long before they were born. I said that in 1950, we went to war in troopships slowed by the weight of 3,000 men. Suddenly, they were talking about the vehicle that carried them to their battles. “Come outside,” they exclaimed, “We want you to sit in our fire truck!”
When we reached the truck, they gestured at the cab and urged me to get behind the wheel so they could take a photograph. But, I’m 96 years old and the cab loomed too high for me to climb into. The team could have been to and from an emergency in the time it would take me to reach the steering wheel.
We compromised and a photograph was taken of us standing at the side of their fire truck. I might not have been behind the wheel, but men I admired made me feel I was one of them racing to an emergency.
Later, as I left the station, I felt spring in my step as I went to my car. For a moment, I wasn’t four years from a century old, I was a teen-age soldier again, striding alongside men I respected and who respected me.
Of course I sent the fire truck photograph to my entire family. My grandchildren showed them to my two great-grandsons, exclaiming “Look,” Popop loves fire trucks too!” Bob’s articles have appeared in The New York Times, The San Francisco Chronicle and in Next Avenue, the publication of the Public Broadcasting Service. His book, “What’s Stopping Me From Getting Ahead?” was published by McGraw Hill and is in five languages.
