Putting a fire out with tears; a community mourns
As a reporter and a man, you shouldn’t cry.
But when the D.A. told us at a press conference that four of 137 Barclay Friends Home residents were unaccounted for and had likely not made it out alive from the Nov. 16 overnight inferno, my eyes teared.
I hadn’t cried so much since I’d interviewed Bianca Roberson’s mother. Early this summer, 18-year-old Bianca had been shot and killed in a fit of road rage.
Please don’t tell those TV reporters who were respectful and silent at Monday’s press briefing at the Chester County District Attorney’s office that I’m not that tough. I hope they didn’t see my moment of weakness.
My coat still smells of smoke. Though the reek is only temporary, my outlook on life has forever changed.
For more than five hours, I watched a nursing home burn.
Few, if any, residents watched the spectacle, as their home and memories burned. I watched intently. Had I’d loved this place, and if it held decades of memories for me, I too probably would not have watched.
Photographer Pete Bannan had called me just before 11 p.m. I really didn’t want to go. I didn’t want to see it. Let somebody else cover the news this night. Not me.
Eventually I left my comfy, non-burning home and made my way to the fire scene. What was the rush? I paused long enough to buy a soda at a mini-market. Oh my, I really didn’t want to be there.
For the most part, the flashing lights of emergency responders were extinguished. We waited. Dozens of residents in wheelchairs were wrapped like mummies. There was almost total silence. Nobody talked above a whisper.
Residents queued up in 40-degree temperatures for their ride on some of 35 ambulances and several buses, away from the Quaker facility they’d called home.
I circulated. I needed to cover the story, but more than anything I wanted to comfort those residents. They are my neighbors.
We told them it would be all right. They were now safe. We’d soon get them out of the cold. Nobody at all complained.
The video shown at the Monday press conference showed a hero, an emergency responder, yank a resident off her feet and sling her almost gently across his shoulder, hauling her to safety. This was repeated many times.
I talked to neighborhood resident who had entered the smoky structure and wheeled somebody out in a bed. I wondered aloud if I’d run into a burning building, I told him. Life is full of surprises. We never do know, do we?
Along with members of the neighborhood, I chatted at the fire scene with residents. We tried to pretend this was just another normal evening. Everybody knew it wasn’t.
As a reporter, I’ve covered several emergency practice drills. That Thursday night, it felt like another drill. Everybody simply did what they thought was appropriate and acted as they’d been trained.
At the Monday press conference, we heard about melted and cracked firefighter’s helmets. More tears flowed. There are so many heroes.
At 3:30 a.m., I watched from my car as the firefighters — those heroes — marched past me and back home. They were limp. I’ve never seen so much exhaustion. They’d battled the flames and saved many lives. Why weren’t they rejoicing?
I’d been trapped. A working fire hose blocked my way and a firefighter told me to not drive across it. Although exhausted, I didn’t mind. Many had it much worse.
A food truck offered free goodies, but few ate.
A press conference was held at the scene at 4 a.m. Not much was revealed. There was a great deal to be understood. We didn’t need a scorecard. We’d all seen enough.
Those 35 ambulances lined up on Franklin Street had each transported another saved life, or two, away from what until hours before had likely been a comfortable abode. I cry as I write. Our young and our old are our most vulnerable. The urge is to protect. May the residents, our neighbors, find peace at their new homes.
Like the rest of us, I’ll try to fight the tears.