The atmosphere at a youth ball game is usually a soundtrack of summer: the crack of the bat, the enthusiastic chants of the players, and the calming hum of the crowd enjoying their day off as the warm breeze blows the black flies away just enough to bearably watch the children play. But, when you belong to a firefighting family, you hear the world a little bit differently. You notice who is there, and you acutely notice who is missing because their pager went off.
Last weekend, I attended a ball game with my young children while my husband, who is a volunteer firefighter here in Maine, was out servicing a local fire department. It should have been a carefree day watching the kids play. Instead, it felt heavy, shadowed by the horrific explosion at a mill in Searsmont and not knowing if everyone was ok, who might be injured or even worse, killed.
It was a mass casualty event. One firefighter lost his life. Ten others were injured or severely burned, some placed into medically induced comas just to survive the agonizing pain of their injuries. These aren’t corporate employees with massive hazard-pay stipends; these are literally volunteers. They are our neighbors, mechanics, laborers, and contractors. They are men and women who routinely abandon half-eaten dinners, leave their kids and spouses during family game night, are called out to save lives or put out fires on Christmas Eve, drop everything to rush to the scene of a motorcycle accident, climb mountains until after midnight carrying heavy equipment when they had originally planned all week long to be watching a family movie with their children on their day off from their regularly scheduled 40+ hour work week at their regular job, and they consistently jump out of warm beds right in the dead of winter sometimes having to plow themselves out to run toward chaos while the rest of the world runs away. They do it happily. They do it proudly!
While sitting in the stands, I overheard a conversation that perfectly encapsulates the staggering disconnect between the people who protect our communities and the people who live in them.
A woman nearby spent a significant amount of time passionately discussing Graham Platner, gushing over how charismatic and wonderful he is. The conversation shifted eventually to the Searsmont tragedy, her tone didn’t drop into solemn respect for the dead or injured. Instead, she fixated on a bizarre grievance, mentioning more than once her deep concern over how much water must have been used to fight that fire.
Not a word about the family planning a funeral. Not a breath of empathy for the firefighters fighting for their lives in a burn unit. Just bureaucratic anxiety over water usage.
It was jarring, a heartbreaking moment of how worthless a volunteer family sacrifices may seem to them, but it’s indicative of a larger cultural sickness. We have become a society so consumed by political talking points, climate agendas, and the lingering echoes of pandemic propaganda that we have lost our grip on basic human empathy. We are so busy tracking carbon footprints and debating ideological talking points that we fail to see the literal blood, sweat, and tears being poured onto the pavement to keep our towns safe.
While people get caught up in the trendy political outrage of the week, volunteer fire departments are facing a quiet crisis of their own. Recruitment is down nationwide, budgets are tighter than ever, and the demands on a volunteer’s time are at their highest. Yet, the expectation remains that when a mill explodes, a car flips, a tree is downed, a carbon monoxide detector goes off, a bomb threat possibility arises at the school, a house catches fire, a basement has flooded, a hiker is stuck on a mountain, an EMT needs a lift assist, someone fell off a ladder, a person wakes up dead, or heaven forbid a cat gets stuck in a tree (I always thought this was a myth but it actually has been a call, more than once), a fleet of trucks will miraculously appear to save the day.
We take them for granted because their sacrifice is quiet and humble. They don’t ask for a parade every time they extinguish a chimney fire or cut someone out of a crumpled vehicle. But when a tragedy like Searsmont happens, the absolute bare minimum we owe them is our collective grief, our respect, and our unfiltered gratitude.
If we have reached a point where a catastrophic loss of human life takes a backseat to environmental bean-counting or a political agenda at a baseball game, we have lost our way.
The next time you see a fire truck roll by, or notice a volunteer firefighter with his hazards on desperately trying to just get to the station to hop in a firetruck, remember what’s at stake. Stop worrying about the water, and start worrying about the souls of the people willing to pull you out of the fire, out of the chaos. They give everything for us. The least we can do is notice and appreciate.
Jennifer Perigo
Parkman, ME
