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!
