Today is September 10,2019. Tomorrow the internet will be flooded with tributes to men and women whom died risking their lives to save others inside the Twin Towers, those that died at the Pentagon, in Pennsylvania. When hate reared its ugly head and tried its best to stamp out one of the strongest reflections of selflessness in my lifetime. Hate lost, hope won.
So, tonight I write. A bit more reflective than I normally am, both to get the thoughts out of my head and in honor of the family I grew up around. This is for them. I grew up in a firehouse. My father was a fireman and retired in 2005. I only remember the station he retired out of, but I was older when he reached his last station, at least enough to make memories crawling around on the truck and learning what each component was for. Old enough to remember busting my head open on the passenger side door of the truck when I was younger (don’t recommend that route.) I remember when they got their new quint and it had a completely enclosed cab. I’m sure that was nice for them but an enclosed cab loses the thrill of riding backwards with only a seatbelt on. I can also remember well my father bringing home books for school weeks and listening to my mom quiz him on things like water pressure and happily guessing at answers that I didn’t and still don’t understand.
I think most boys grow up wanting to be firefighters at some point. We are wired that way, we want to be the heroes. Until September 11,2001 I don’t think I realized the gravity of the job. When you are young the danger isn’t there. It looks like one big thrill. It was just cool telling people that my dad was a fireman. That day and those that followed I think I finally understood what it took to run into flames when everyone else was running out and the dangers that went along with it. The job isn’t for the faint of heart. It requires selflessness that bleeds the knowledge that every call could be your last. The ultimate sacrifice that could mean the giving of your life to save others.
There is a brotherhood amongst first responders. It doesn’t matter if you never meet. When one falls they all hurt. September 11 was a day like no other because of that. I can’t speak to that brotherhood, though I can tell you from a personal perspective of growing up around these men and women, it is very much a family. My father has a tattoo with the number 343 representing the number of FDNY who perished in the Twin Towers.
I’ve never worn the gear outside of work and showing the kids that it is nothing more than clothes and shouldn’t be feared. Although I’ve tried on both my brothers and my fathers once or twice. I’ve never born the responsibility of having the lives of others in my hands. I’ve never felt the heat of flames around me. I’ve also never felt the call to do so. Public service and first responders run in my family but for me it goes only as deep as an incessant need to know wherever the sirens I hear are going, every single time. I’ve never lived and worked from a firehouse, but that’s the funny thing about the fire department, I’m a Henegar. While I’ve never born the title of fireman I’ve always been a Henegar and that is a name that gets recognized (no matter how hard it is to spell.) If you didn’t know my father you likely know one of my brothers. Throughout my years at MDO we’ve had firemen come and give demonstrations to the kids. Without fail they hear my name, grin a little, and ask me if I’m a ‘Henegar’ boy. I am in fact a Henegar boy. My job is vastly different. I don’t wear heavy gear or risk my life. But, no matter what my career title is, I will always be a Henegar boy. The Fire Department helped raise me. These men and women are heroes, every day.
