16 June 2012
Dear Dad,
The other day Emilia put on your old turnout coat and marched around the house putting out "fires" (the lights) and rescuing her stuffed animals from various predicaments, "just like grandpa would." It was so cute, Dad; I wish you could have seen it. I think we've got another firefighter in the making here.
When I put the coat away, I noticed it still smells like smoke. I suspect it always will. It brought back a lot of memories and I've been thinking about you a lot since then. And I wanted to let you know somehow. This seemed the best way.
For lots of folks, I guess smoke wouldn't be a good smell. But I remember when you'd come off-shift and tiptoe into my bedroom to check on me before going to sleep yourself. You'd lean down to kiss me on the forehead and I could smell the smoke still clinging to your skin. When I knew you'd come home safely again, I'd drop right off to sleep. Even when I was a teenager, Dad, that smell made me feel safer, despite what I might have said about the stink. (Sorry, Dad.)
Emilia and I are going over to your old station tomorrow to drop off some cookies for the guys there. Remember the first time I did that? Grandma and I brought the cookies over that afternoon. When you saw me, you picked me up and swung me around and around, you were so happy to see me. The other guys were laughing with us. You let me sit in your seat on the engine, and wear your coat and hat, even. Mr. DeSoto said the cookies and the visit made his Father's Day, too.
The next year, you took me to the station even though it was your day off because I insisted the guys you worked with had to have something special on Father's Day, too. Do you remember what you said to me? You said: "Well, if they can't have a daughter as special as you, Becca B., the next best thing is having some of my special daughter's cookies."
Last year, after you – so hard to say it, even now – after you died, I almost didn't go. I finally decided I'd just drop the cookies off quietly, at 51s instead of your last station, and not really talk to anyone. The guys from back in the day have moved on, of course, so I didn't expect anyone to recognize me.
But do you know who was there, waiting? Mr. Gage, Mr. Lopez, Mr. DeSoto, Mr. Stoker, and even old Captain Stanley's daughter, Marie. That's when they gave me your turnout coat, actually. We shared the cookies and lots of stories, about you and your practical jokes mostly, with the shift on station. Mr. Gage even rigged a water bomb in the cabinet to demonstrate your technique to them. One of the young guys at the station – Willie Stoker, I think it was – pretended he didn't understand how it would work and got Mr. Gage to open the cabinet door to, uh, show him. SPLAT! We had quite a laugh. (He's still a good pigeon, Dad, and a good sport.)
Anyway, it's been just over two years now, and, well, I've been thinking about you a lot recently. I guess it was the smell of the coat that brought it all back up. I miss you, Daddy, and I love you. Happy Father's Day.
Love,
Rebecca B. Carson nee Kelly