When The Bagpipes Say Goodbye

I got out of our pickup just as the emergency vehicles arrived. Chief’s SUV leading the way, The Division Chief’s SUV, directly behind it – but he wasn’t driving it; my son was. So began the procession. Ambulances, and firetrucks from around the area following. On the ride down, we had already observed other responders’ vehicles along the highway: state patrol, county, sheriff, a city cop. I suspected they were either waiting to join the procession, or were simply there to provide a presence and to honor a fallen brother.

It was the day to honor and remember one of our local fire departments’ most loved and respected men.

I had never attended a fire Line of Duty Death (LODD) ceremony before, at least not in person. But I knew what it entailed and I knew what it meant to these men and women who would be attending.

As people started to gather in front of the venue, I stood there rather awkwardly, but it wasn’t long before I began to see a lot of old familiar faces. Hugs and recognition so appreciated. Pretty soon someone came out and announced it would be about 30 minutes, so this would be a good time to take care of any business before taking our seats.

I stood there a moment longer watching a uniformed firefighter standing with ax in hand stoically guarding the bus, from where our friend’s casket would be transported. It was all a part of the tradition, that would make up this traditional moving and reverent service for a fallen brother.

There at the entry was the guest book, along with photos of the chief and a copy of the poem my son had written for him when the realization of his death had hit him. I looked around the auditorium and noticed how beautifully the stage held a few remnants of this man’s life. Obviously this had been done with much love and understanding.

At precisely 1100 hours the bagpipes began to play “Going Home” in the distance. I didn’t understand at the time, but fire personnel lined the walkway as the casket was brought from the ambulance to the building. The uniformed first responders, were then instructed to find their seats before the casket was presented.

As the flag-draped casket was brought to the forefront of the stage, my husband was first to stand. And I was grateful. The room was filled with silence with the only sound being a creaking leather shoe, or a sole landing on the surface of the stage.

There would be a beautiful presentation of colors, while everyone stood silently in respect. Only the voice of the commander filled the room with his instruction for the march. So continued the solemnity of this event.

Throughout the service the casket was guarded with the men who held the ax, changing guard periodically throughout. The service is rich with symbolism and tradition, which adds to not only the respect, but the beauty. It is a reminder of all that our lost loved one has given in the line of duty - a time of thanks, recognition and honor. Above all of that, the service is a healing salve for those who remain.

We watched a beautiful video of our friend’s life and then his daughter spoke eloquently, with words deep within her. Sharing a part of her dad, continuing as she always had; sharing him through this man’s service to his community.

One of the most poignant parts in her sharing, was when she told of a time, that she was deep in despair. She told her dad, Daddy, you have prepared me well. You taught me to even be able to fight off the apocalypse, but I was not prepared for this. What do I do? His answer was pretty simple but often lost on most. “Just pray,” he responded, “read your Bible, and find something to laugh at every day.”

Pretty cogent advice, I would say.

Certainly the most moving part of the ceremony is the Ringing of the Bell and last call. And then the bagpipes said good-bye.

One thing I know, this man was always there, as many would attest to, throughout the day. One fellow firefighter took opportunity to tell us, “It was more unusual to be on a call when Chief wasn’t there, than be on a call when he was.” And he was the first to be in the mess of it all, tending to whatever was required.

From the time of his death, there was a lingering of his presence, but suddenly one would feel, and realize, “Oh wait, no.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There is a magical beauty in the way these services bring all first responders together. There was both police and fire there. The often fun rivalry between the red and blue come together at moments like this.

It took my breath away as we joined the final procession leaving the area to see two ladder trucks making an arch across the road way to fly the flag in honor of this civil servant. I was deeply moved that for most of the 20 mile trek back to burial, city cops, state cops, sheriff, whomever it took, blocked the side streets to prevent traffic from disrupting the funeral procession. What a wonderful city, county, state, nation we reside to know that this kind of service would be provided. 

I don’t know if it was arranged or not, but a local tow truck straddled the center lane of the highway to prevent impatient motorists trying to enter the procession. He wasn’t about to allow it. As one tried, he simply moved to the right lane and stopped dead in his tracks to stop the disrespectful motorist from moving any further, forcing them to pull over as they should. One person in a brand new expensive car without a license made it into the procession. He eventually moved into the left lane where the procession traveled and turned on his flashers like the rest of us. But soon, that wasn’t even enough for him, and he turned off his flashers and hopped back to the right lane hoping to make an inside pass. I actually had to laugh when I saw this tow truck block his path any further. He had no choice but to move over to the side of the road. It was the only negative moment in the day, but Chief would find a silver lining in that. Of course, respect cannot be forced; but stopping disrespect can.

As we arrived at the burial site, the sun had come out revealing a beautiful blue sky on a wondrous winter day. The sun shone through the pine trees and as drops of water fell from the warming of snow on the trees, it felt like tears raining from heaven. As I looked up, there was a fine mist of water revealed in the sunlight. Just a sprinkling of tears and love, that didn’t present sadness, but rather hope. I think Chief would have liked that and he would say: “Carry on. You are ‘hope’ in the worst case scenarios. That’s your job.”

Pretty sure, there is not many who did it better.

He will not only be missed by his family and friends, he will be missed by an entire community. Here’s to those who carry on.