Thankful for our Local Heroes

A few days ago, a fire alarm pulled our local Fire Department volunteers out of their homes and businesses just a couple of days before the Thanksgiving holiday. Firefighters, whether professional or volunteer, never know what kind of call they may get, and when they jump on the truck they have to be mentally and physically prepared for whatever awaits them at their destination. 

On this occasion, it was a cotton module fire at the local COOP Gin. I don’t yet know all the details of this fire, other than one module initially caught fire.  And, since the wrapped rectangular modules (aka “bales”) are placed in rows next to one another on the gin lot to await the ginning process, the fire quickly spread to nearby modules. That scenario was risky enough, but it was complicated by extremely high winds that gusted all afternoon, making the containment of the fire a severe challenge. 

Ultimately, neighboring volunteer fire departments from the communities of Lockney, Floydada, Ralls, Lorenzo, Idalou, New Deal, and Abernathy joined our local guys, and many fought through the night to keep the fire from spreading to homes and fields adjoining the gin property. 

Since the cotton gin is only three blocks from my house, I am one who is extremely grateful to these folks, who serve our local community in keeping us safe from fires 24/7. These volunteers don’t do this in a full-time paid capacity. Most have full-time jobs other places, and often have to leave those jobs at a moment’s notice to join a fire in progress.

The fire this week brought back many memories. My dad, Charlie Martin, was a volunteer firefighter here in Petersburg for many years while I was growing up. I don’t know how many years he served, but at one time he was Fire Chief, as I recall. His volunteer duties were a normal part of our family life.

I seem to remember that one night a week was “fire practice” and they met to drill on different techniques and make sure the equipment was in good shape. Dad owned an auto mechanic shop, and it was quite common for the fire siren to sound during the day while he had his head under the hood of a car. He had to abruptly leave everything and run down to the station, don his equipment, and catch the truck that headed toward the fire in progress. They never knew the extent of the blaze or how long it would take to control it until they arrived on the scene.

As a little girl, I was proud of my dad for being a firefighter, but also frightened at the danger he continually faced. I vividly recall being awakened in the middle of the night to hear the fire siren wailing through the darkness, summoning the men out of their warm, safe homes. My heart would race at the sound, even as I heard Daddy jump out of bed and throw on his clothes. Within seconds, he was out the door and racing in his pickup for the station downtown, five blocks away. I would lay in my bed, praying for his safe return and unable to fall back asleep until I heard him pull quietly back into the driveway. 

During the hours he was away, I was also fearful for the victims of the fire. We were a small farming community, so we likely knew the people whose house was ablaze or whose cotton trailer had caught fire, whose barn was up in flames or whose farmland suffered from prairie fires. It was a sobering time because these were not impersonal blazes. They affected the kids I sat beside in school every day. Fortunately, I cannot recall that there was ever loss of life from these fires, but it was always a frightening scenario because of the potential losses.

Daddy didn’t talk much about the fires, at least not in our presence. I wish I had asked him about some of the stories—what he thought about on his way to a fire, the times he was afraid, the occasions when they faced a seemingly insurmountable task, or the times he felt gratified that he had helped someone in the community. 

Dad never considered himself a hero, and probably the other guys didn’t either. It was simply something they did to help out. But to me, he was always a hero. A hero is usually someone who doesn’t set out to do grand, heroic things. They are just doing their job, or stepping up when someone else won’t. They see a need and think it’s their duty to volunteer, to fill the need. I would guess that many times, a hero is scared about what he’s about to do, and feels inadequate for the task. But he does it anyway—and I think those characteristics are keys to why they are heroes. They are willing to do something unselfish, outside their comfort zone or training, because it will help someone else and because it needs to be done.

God bless the firefighters around the country, both professional and volunteer ones. Support them in any way you can, and thank them for doing their jobs. And to our local volunteers who worked this Thanksgiving week to keep us safe, a special THANK YOU!

Resurrection Morning

Easter has a rich meaning for me as an adult ~ things that I appreciate now that I never comprehended as a child.

When I was a little girl, Easter was mostly about hunting Easter eggs, wearing my new dress (complete with white shoes, gloves, and a hat!) to church, and a Sunday dinner of ham and all my mother’s special dishes that included one of her signature desserts.

My sister and I usually posed before church on the front lawn for a photo, taken with the family Kodak camera. It often turned cold and/or rainy on Easter morning, so we sometimes had to bundle up in a coat that hid the lovely dresses our mother had made us for the occasion.

My parents hid hand-dyed boiled eggs (and sometimes plastic ones too) around the inside of the house for a quick hunt after

I first woke up. Then we ate breakfast and dressed for church. If little girls hurried, there might be time for one more hiding-and-hunting session before Sunday School. 

After lunch eaten at our kitchen table, I changed into play clothes while one of my parents (or more likely my big sister) hid the eggs once again in our back yard, and I would go hunting again. The hiding and hunting happened multiple times during the afternoon if the weather cooperated.

My Easter basket was a small, plain basket stuffed with Easter grass—nothing like the big

colorful Easter baskets children have today. And I used the same one, year after year, until one special Easter when I was about four. A good family friend, Oleta, drove up to our house the day before Easter that year. Her family and ours had been close for a long time, and she and my mother had a special friendship. Oleta, who had never married, lived with her parents. A tiny, perky lady with a good sense of humor, Oleta was a grocery checker at the local market. I was always drawn to this lady, who had no children of her own, because she was kind and fun-loving, and paid special attention to me. On that Saturday, I was outside playing on the swings west of our house. Oleta drove into the circular drive in the empty lot by our house and stopped under the trees where I was playing. I excitedly ran to the car to greet her; she rolled down the window and handed me a new, filled Easter basket and then drove away.

I don’t think I had ever seen the large filled baskets in the stores before that day (Mama had probably worked hard to keep that knowledge a secret!). I thought the plain little basket I carried every Easter was what everyone had. Oleta’s basket was larger and was stuffed with candy, little Easter toys, and plastic eggs. It was as stunning to me as winning the lottery, and I ran inside with excitement to show my mother. I don’t remember receiving gifts from Oleta before or after that day, for any occasion ~ and I don’t know what prompted her generosity on that occasion in the early fifties. But I was stunned and thankful for such a magnificent gift.

Another Easter, perhaps a year or two later, my Aunt Velma and Uncle George came to the house on the Saturday before Easter. They brought me tiny feathery Easter chicks that I had seen for sale in the stores. The little stick feet were fragile and the chicks were more loose feathers than anything—not exactly something you would play with. But I had never had one and I was thrilled, and promptly put them on the living room table to be displayed.

When I was a little bit older the neighbor next door, Willie Mae, brought me my first chocolate bunny. I saved it for quite a while, hesitant to eat any of it and mar the shape. Then I prolonged the delight by eating a small bite every day to make it last.

These stories make it sound like we were so poor that my parents never bought me anything. But truthfully, we were so rich in all the things that count. Yes, money was tight and they did not squander money on frivolous things very often. But I always had all I needed, and didn’t feel deprived. Easter was not so commercialized then, so children did not have all the toys and baskets and candy that are considered mandatory in the 21^stCentury. 

I mostly remember Easter being a secular holiday and don’t remember elaborate celebrations to commemorate Christ rising from the tomb; that recognition became more obvious only as I grew older. Yet perhaps as a child enjoying all the secular fuss of the day, I grasped the concept on a deeper level than I realized. While I may not have made the connection until much later, the stunned awe and joy of those early simple Easter gifts laid the foundation for the anticipation and joy of the greatest Gift of all. Dressing in our finery that was provided by loving parents anticipates the day we will pose in our heavenly home, clothed with the robes our Father will provide.  Searching for the hidden eggs will be a distant memory when someday we discover all the hidden gems of knowledge and wisdom, and the rich sense of love, that we were never meant to understand or anticipate while still on Planet Earth. 

The surprising and unexpected generosity of friends and family who gave gifts to a little girl ~ well, that is so much like all the sweet surprises of gifts from our Heavenly Father who gives more than we ever expect—who gives even before we know we need something—who gives things we never dreamed even existed. There will never be an Easter basket big enough or fancy enough to hold all those gifts that are ours because we are beloved children of The Father!

I'm so very thankful my heavenly Dad made the ultimate sacrifice of his Son on my behalf, and I hope you will celebrate Resurrection Sunday with me today.