That tragic story was our story that began on March 16 th, 1972. Months of hospitalization physical therapy, treatments and endless follow-up appointments not to mention the legal battles. The children died from heat and smoke inhalation and both parents were severely burnt with extensive 2 nd and 3 rd degree burns. Upon striking the match the flame appeared to flare up, and then, without warning, the air exploded, turning the house into a fiery infernal….a living hell. Mom nursed the baby and then prior to turning in, chose to return to the living room and finish a cigarette. Coming off night shift, the dad was soon fast asleep. Returning home three hours later, this exhausted family went about the nightly routine of preparing for bed. The residue from the extinguisher remained perhaps this new mother overreacted!Īccepting an invitation for dinner, the family locked the doors and enjoyed a relaxing evening with friends. This action brought in the firefighters as well as the gas company of which had them puzzled but, left with little concern for their safety, as it appeared that no further action was needed they would check again the following day. With the children safely secured, a call to 911, the mom, with the help of a friend put out the flashing fire. On that particular morning, while attempting to do a load of laundry, a spark from a light switch created a flash fire around the electrical panel and the floor joists above the washer, spreading the length of the basement. Tragically, only eight days later, on the 15 th of March, unbeknown to them, a natural gas line broke below the street outside their home the frozen ground filtering out the telltale odor. On March 8 th, 1972, their four-year-old son, finally got to hold his brand new baby sister. Following the birth of their first born, they experienced a miscarriage and a full term stillborn baby boy. It is the story of a thirty-two-year-old firefighter with seven years service and his twenty-eight year-old wife. However, there is one story that is told that is embedded deep within my soul. Stories, the pride and yes, even the passion continued to flow as it filled nine years of retirement from active duty. These were the kids who got to sit in the assortment of fire trucks and sound the horns, parading around in turnout gear and dad’s boots while visiting the hall. Growing up with a firefighter dad was always an adventure. There was even a time while changing ambulance drivers on the side of the highway ended up with him being left behind….but that is another story. The kids loved the stories and would laugh when he would tell them how he and his team of brothers would turn into human icicles and had to be stacked like cords of wood on the ride back to the hall where they were hosed down with warm water to thaw them out (a prairie winter hazard). Miraculously, all this vanishes as the night shift turns to day and the cries of “daddies home!” turns into exciting stories of how they ‘knocked that fire down’, or ‘never turned a wheel’. alarms, the empty chair at special occasions, the stench of smoke embedded uniforms, tears and pain over the loss of precious lives, sirens and flashing lights, pacing, waiting and the worry that intensified with every leaping flame. ![]() Thirty-four years of revolving shift work, preparing lunches and ironing shirts (yes, we actually did this!), unfinished dinners, 3:00 a.m. ![]() The pride and passion for his thirty-four year career of active duty was a reflection of which I am today, and behind the scenes, was as much my career as it was for Lt. My name is Gwen and one of my life’s blessings was that of being the wife of a firefighter.
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