The road today led us across some beautiful high country desert. Rain pelted our windshield as we rolled into Dolce, the snow-covered peaks of the
Battalion Commander Dave Trujillo met us as we pulled up to Santa Fe Fire Department’s Station #1. I had spoken with him over the phone on two separate occasions, to explain what we were doing and to set up a time to stop by, so he basically knew why there were two trucks in his lot, one of them with a huge piece of metal tied to the back.
The other men and women in the department were totally clueless.
The other men and women in the department were totally clueless.
Captain Gerard Sena summed up the mood around the fire house after September 11th. “There was a definite sense of loss in the following days. Across the nation you have brothers out there going to work, kissing the wife and kids good-bye and hoping for the best.”
Captain Naranjo and Engine 1 led the way to Santa Fe Plaza
With our firefighter friends standing in a curved line behind the cross Jon eased into the spiel that was becoming second nature to him. As he was still speaking one of the women in the crowd interjected.
“These guys do a great job for us,” she said, pointing past Jon toward the line of firefighters in blue. “It is so wonderful you are involving them in this.” Her name was Patty. She was a Victims’ Services Volunteer in Travis County, Texas. A few other people chimed in, with words of affirmation and scraps of applause.
I’m sure that woman meant what she said. But I wondered if she in particular, and the greater public in general, had always been that ready and willing to sing the praises of the local firefighters. Not that they hadn’t always deserved it. But had the proverbial fireman rescuing the cat from the tree been replaced with the image of those first responders rushing into the smoking, smoldering towers? Were these men (and one woman) of the Santa Fe Fire Department now on a level with the 343 firemen who were lost on that day trying to save people they didn’t even know?
Jon and I would debate it later, to no definite conclusion though it seemed plausible to think that this cross bridged a geographic and cognitive gap between those firefighters in New York City and those here in Santa Fe – and Los Angeles, and Grand Canyon Village and everywhere else across the country. Or maybe it was just a reminder of an idea that had already taken root in the minds of the people we met.
Or maybe it was nothing of the sort. Jon could tell those who asked what this cross meant to him, where it came from, where it was going and what he was doing with it in between. Any significance beyond that would be ascribed, aloud or in private, by the people who saw it along the way.
With our firefighter friends standing in a curved line behind the cross Jon eased into the spiel that was becoming second nature to him. As he was still speaking one of the women in the crowd interjected.
“These guys do a great job for us,” she said, pointing past Jon toward the line of firefighters in blue. “It is so wonderful you are involving them in this.” Her name was Patty. She was a Victims’ Services Volunteer in Travis County, Texas. A few other people chimed in, with words of affirmation and scraps of applause.
I’m sure that woman meant what she said. But I wondered if she in particular, and the greater public in general, had always been that ready and willing to sing the praises of the local firefighters. Not that they hadn’t always deserved it. But had the proverbial fireman rescuing the cat from the tree been replaced with the image of those first responders rushing into the smoking, smoldering towers? Were these men (and one woman) of the Santa Fe Fire Department now on a level with the 343 firemen who were lost on that day trying to save people they didn’t even know?
Jon and I would debate it later, to no definite conclusion though it seemed plausible to think that this cross bridged a geographic and cognitive gap between those firefighters in New York City and those here in Santa Fe – and Los Angeles, and Grand Canyon Village and everywhere else across the country. Or maybe it was just a reminder of an idea that had already taken root in the minds of the people we met.
Or maybe it was nothing of the sort. Jon could tell those who asked what this cross meant to him, where it came from, where it was going and what he was doing with it in between. Any significance beyond that would be ascribed, aloud or in private, by the people who saw it along the way.
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