skip to main |
skip to sidebar
NOTE: I know that I said the kids would not make many appearances but this will be one of the exceptions. I'm not sure why this little life lesson parable is important to me but it is. From 08:
April 11, 2008
Why do we parents extol the genius credentials of our children in some areas while selling short their level of sophistication in others? I received another parenting lesson today, compliments of a dead hamster named Garagey. I felt bad about this little guy going; he was my favorite. A tough little ball of true-survivor, who loved the company of people.
If most pets were left to the care of the kids that we ostensibly buy them for they would probably all starve. So we, as parents, feed them, play with them and generally look after their welfare while the kids tend to check in and out of the cycle when they want to play with something furry. The result is that we become vested somehow and see the pet as ours as much as the kid’s. We also think that our kids need us more than they do in some situations, and that is my epiphany today.
So Garagey finally met his match in a combination of old age (2, for God’s sake) and illness. He died during the night and I placed him in a matchbox so that we could have a proper memorial before finding him a nice spot in the landscape. Nick and I went to baseball practice after school and, while there, Cindy and Natalie saw fit to put Garagey to rest. The logic of not keeping a dead animal in the house any longer than necessary was lost on Nicholas however, who never got a chance to say goodbye.
So like some kind of rodent version of CSI, we exhumed the body. Nick took the shovel and tidied up the hole in the rose bed while we collected some rose petals and lavender. Nick and Natalie covered Garagey with two of the rose petals and they both said goodbye before we slid the box closed. Nick, still stoic, said “I think we should say a few words” and everyone said something nice about our friend and how much we loved him. We then reburied him and Natalie placed a small shrine on top: An abalone shell filled with water and floating blueberries (he loved them) and a plastic gemstone with lavender flowers on the rim. Nick added a skateboard wheel with yet another plastic jewel. The purpose, according to Natalie was twofold: For his journey, and just in case he comes back. (Gifts to the afterlife; a concept that struck me as sort of Egyptian). I went with the journey theory because the other sounded too much like a Stephen Spielberg movie.
More words, a few minor tears, then Cindy & I went inside. Nicholas stayed with the shrine, sitting at the edge of the rose bed. We began to hear soft crying, then wailing; the sound of awful grief. Cindy and I both spring for the door because that’s what parents do. Delayed reaction notwithstanding, if the kid is hurting the kid gets held. What stopped us was the sight of Natalie beating us to him. She wrapped her arms around him and held him, rocking slightly on her heels. She is now crying herself and they hold each other, together in uninhibited sorrow.
It was then that I realized that the injection of either one of us into that moment would have ruined it. They still need us, of course. But right then they needed each other more, locked in the wrenching simplicity of childhood sorrow. I thought to myself: Hold on to each other guys. A little more cement in that relationship, a slightly stronger bond that we can only hope will last a lifetime.
And that may be about as much as a seven dollar hamster can teach us. Natalie’s gut response to her brother’s sadness made me realize that they are getting old enough to take charge of the moment and wise enough to know that making it better isn’t always possible. It is also not the only thing that matters; And when they’re not fighting or otherwise tormenting each other, that sister-brother love and support can be priceless commodities; And that sometimes the best parenting option is to just observe, with respect.
Goodbye Garagey, sileo in pacis. I don’t know about those two but I got my seven bucks worth.
Ten years ago today my phone rang at home and the familiar voice of a friend and Fire Captain was on the other end. “Joe I need to give you a heads up. We lost Masto at Camuesa”. I knew that my immediate response was a misinterpretation of what I had just been told: “What do you mean ‘lost’ him? Find him”. But the reality had already landed: Masto was dead.
“What happened?” A pause, and then: “I don’t know”
Another pause, before I realized that Mike’s task was to call every member of the Department, wherever he could find them. I had another call coming in anyway and I let him move on with his somber chore. The next voice was the Chief’s: “Take whoever you need and get up to Camuesa to investigate this” As gently as I could, I reminded him that Camuesa was not exactly our jurisdiction. Masto was assigned as a Line EMT on a wildland fire in the Los Padres National Forest. As such, he was working for the Forest Service, who are accustomed, I was sure, to conducting their own fatality investigations. “Whatever, just get up there. He was working near a convict crew and I’m getting conflicting information about what happened. I’ll tell them you’re coming”
I wanted to go anyway and would have been disappointed had he not called. I contacted Marty and had him meet me on Highway 154, where we then went on to Live Oak Camp, the headquarters for the Camuesa Incident. The camp was teeming with firefighters in various stages of deployment or rest, along with the Type II Management Team in charge of suppressing the fire. The mood of the team was grim, and they had just been informed that a Type I Team was being assembled to replace them the following morning. The death of a firefighter had upped the ante.
Not long after that I found myself in a helicopter with a Cal Fire Captain, headed for the spot where Steve Masto fell. Marty stayed behind to conduct interviews and because I knew of his lifelong fear of helicopters. He called them “whirly-gigs of death”, which usually made me laugh. Not today though, and I boarded the ship without my usual enthusiasm for the flight. There had been no time for crews to cut a landing zone and the pilot intended to “hot drop” us on a nearby ridge. I checked the weather conditions: 105 degrees F with low humidity and moderate winds. All we needed was one skid down for the two of us to grab our gear and bail, putting distance between ourselves and the chopper. The drop was uneventful, except for the clouds of fine black char and dust the rotors kicked up, making it difficult to see.
Reality is never the way you presuppose it. Although the ridge had been an area of heavy fire activity, the terrain where Steve died was not. Inexplicably, it appeared that he had been making his way up the face of an extremely steep knoll laced with game trails but otherwise not suited for hiking, especially in extreme heat. To the west, the Camuesa Connector trail looped around the back side of the knoll, allowing relatively easy access to the top, and visible from above a second ridge trail led from the south with similar ease of use. It was this trail leading, ironically, from Paradise Road, where Masto was last seen before he disappeared.
Hand crews had by now cut a path across the face of the knoll and we made our way to the spot where the CDF crew had found him. My colleague was the leader of that crew, a group of convicts on partial work release, trained as hand crews. There was never a valid suspicion about the convicts: They had been actively searching for Steve, under the direction of their leader, since he had been reported missing. The CDF Captain spoke what I was thinking: “No trail, all in the green”. Climbing a steep, south facing slope in 105 degree heat, dense chaparral, that would have to be one extremely hot climb. I tested the footing: “Shale…”, said my companion, “…really loose”. Another strike.
I found myself talking to Masto, looking for any kind of clue that might make sense. “What the hell were you doing here?” The ”Z Division” Supervisor had been waiting for him on the ridge above not 200 yards away, but was unable to see Masto, and probably would not have considered the face of the knoll anyway. Let’s face it: Why there? No one would climb that under those conditions, right? It wasn’t until later in the investigation that we realized the obvious: Steve could see him. His red Captain's helmet would have been a beacon to the rookie, who was ordered to report to the "Z Division Supervisor". The duty bound, dedicated Masto was reporting for duty, right to the end. 
At some point, he had to know he was in trouble. Somewhere along the line, before delirium fully set in but after taking the wrong branch of the trail, he must have thought that something was not right. Being an inexperienced but highly dedicated fire professional, he was fully outfitted for wildland firefighting according to the Department’s Standard Operating Procedures. The double layering; the gloves; the helmet; the face shield; the full pack, including medical equipment. He was doing everything right. This was his first wildland assignment and he was not about to invite trouble from his superiors by removing safety gear because of a little heat. Everyone else was handling it, and they were on the fireline already!
At the time of his death, he was what the fire service refers to as a “single unit resource”, that is: alone. He had a radio but it is unclear whether he knew whom to call. It is reasonable to assume, however, that the rookie did not want to draw attention to himself, and by the time it would have occurred to him it is unlikely that he was in any condition to do so. Heat stress will do that to you: Confusion as dense as the chaparral, robbing you of your last defense.
The Forest Service welcomed us into the investigation and as a team we tried to dissect what went wrong. A firefighter not exposed to the incident perishes in a seemingly senseless fashion and there simply has to be a palatable explanation, right? We learned a great deal, about heat stress, an already well known danger in wildland incidents; the dynamic of being the “new guy”; the machismo firefighting culture; dogged adherence to policy, even when one’s own self interest is threatened, and the single minded dedication to duty of a young man who only ever wanted to be a firefighter.
We learned that we failed that young man, of course. He should not have been alone. Someone older and wiser should have said: “Take some of that stuff off son, you look like hell” or maybe “No, rookie, we are not climbing that.” We failed as a culture too, when someone confused about their situation is too embarrassed or intimidated to ask for help when it is as close as the radio strapped to their belt.
And once again I find myself talking to Masto directly. There are annual remembrances after a loss like this, and as time goes on you hear words like “He died doing something he loved” but I don’t know, Steve. A part of me wishes you had at least made it out of your twenties. You would have loved giant flat screen TV’s and the way the internet just exploded; social networking, and texting contractions: Omg! LMAO! WTF! on your iphone. You would have an iphone, trust me. A part of me wishes that you were an accountant, or a teacher, a lawyer. Someone who’s idea of danger was a summer rafting trip on the Rogue River; and perhaps someone with children of your own.
The Chief here was your Captain at Station 1 and he keeps your last evaluation on his computer. It shows the promise, the potential of a rising star, forever stuck in time. Sometimes I get a little pissed at you Steve. I’m pissed that you didn’t just say “screw this”, and start taking off equipment, find some shade, pour water over you head and yes, call for help. There were 500 people out there who would have moved that stupid mountain to get to you buddy.
But of couse, that’s futile now. For now, we remember the single minded dedication, the loyalty, the honor of the kid who only ever wanted to be a firefighter. It was a good death Steve, and a senseless one.
I have too many half started blogs in too many places, so it seemed only right that I start another My plan is to use this one as a drop blog of sorts, many of them work related, since I've never blogged about work and because I don't have any place to put some of this crazy stuff. I don't anticipate a lot of deep thoughts, nor will my kids make many appearances, but I hope to make it interesting enough for someone to read. I probably won't direct a lot of people here anyway, just folks that I want to share tidbits with. Like Lana, to whom the next post is dropped. Interesting that I open with a story of me being a dork. Oh well.
I’ve only told this story a couple of times, once to @gavsmom1999 in about 10 DM’s. Rachel thought it was so funny that she occasionally brings it up in conversation - on Twitter. The problem is that when she does she distills it to a single tweet and it invariably comes out as something like: “…remember that time you were with that hooker and lost your keys?” GAAAA! Totally out of context and not worth 10 tweets to the world to explain. Anyway, I have, on occasion, felt the need to set the record straight, so here’s the rest of the story:
As I've alluded to from time to time my work orientation here is somewhat of a hybrid. I came up through the organization in Investigations and for years supervised the arson/bomb unit. I still manage that group but have oversight of the entire Division now and don’t carry as many cases as I used to. It’s called promoting the fun out of a job. Anyway, I don’t bring it up very often in Twitter; tends to get me unfollowed. But Rachel knows and one day asked if I ever had funny things happen.
I think a lot of jobs are like this: The moments that stand out are the ones that are the saddest, most frightening, or as is often the case:hilarious. This particular case gave me both some of the saddest- I won’t go into it here - and at the same time some of the funniest; weird the way that works. Anyway, to make a short story long, my suspect, a neo-Nazi biker drug dealer, attempted to murder his girlfriend, a prostitute, with a suitcase bomb (I know, I know: Why? cause she was seeing other men?). Anyway, the bomb functioned but didn’t kill or even injure her very badly, a good thing because she’s a working girl and has to pay the rent.
In any event,at the time I was close to having enough for both a search and arrest warrant to hit this guy’s place and I absolutely need to talk to her one more time. She agreed and my partner and I arrived at her house at about 10 AM. The door was answered by another of their ilk, the “homeowner”, a biker gang member who fell into the place when his father died. He tells me that she’s expecting us and we should just go on into her room. Now, I don’t open doors without a warrant so I politely knock. We both hear furtive, no frantic,scrambling around inside the room and just as I’m beginning to think we might have to shoot our way out a voice says “come in”. I carefully open the door and as soon as my eyes adjust to the lack of light I realize that she is in her water bed (yeah, a water bed), naked under the covers. How do I know that she was naked? She was only patially under the covers and I know naked when I see it: I’m a trained observer.
She informed me that the interview is taking place as-is or not at all. The furtive noises have moved to a nearby closet and I figured we’d just let the John sweat it out in there for the moment. My partner, who blocks the sun on an average day, is jammed in the doorway, taking up the remaining light and positioned for a hasty exit. I figured: “let’s get this over with” so I moved to the side of the bed and just as I did, my car keys slid off the notebook and into the substantial space between the waterbed frame and bag,about four inches from my naked witness.
But I’m cool, right? I’ll just get the keys and…they’re gone. And to make matters worse, a water bed in a frame is like digging in sand: Push it away in one spot, it collapses on another. I realize that this could turn out to be a project but think: maybe nobody noticed. I had worked with Marty for years and he notices when a shadow changes position so I wasn’t surprised to see him convulsing in the doorway. Judging by her expression I was getting no assistance from that quarter either. I spent the rest of the interview alternately fishing around and asking questions with my partner barely able to control his laughter. At one point he said: ”Ya know Joe I think I’ll just wait outside”, to which I gave him a look that made it clear I would pepper spray him if he even moved. More convulsing.
The interview lasted for ten years, or so it seemed. It’s hot, I’m sweating, she can’t seem to bring herself to invest in a decent light bulb and my flashlight is in the locked car that I no longer have the keys to. And my partner thinks that it is just about the funniest thing that he has ever witnessed. I have no idea what I’m sticking my hands into and I’m more than a little concerned about a needle stick, or God knows what else. Finally I said: “listen…I uh, dropped my keys.” To which she said “Yeah, I know.” And then: “I’m sure you can find them if you look hard enough. I suppose you want me to get out of bed.”
No, no I don’t.
It took some time but I finally managed to get one finger on the ring, ending the amusement of my partner and his now co-conspirator. I told her she should let her friend out of the closet before he suffocated. As we walked out of the house I turned to Marty and said: “Thanks a lot for your for your help back there”. That, of course, caused the dam to burst and he doubled over on the sidewalk, LHAO.
So if Rachel ever Twitters about the time I lost my keys in a prostitute’s bed, that's the story. I’m not anywhere near that interesting…
