Happy Camp, California - July 29, 2002

I attended a memorial service tonight for three firefighters. They died fighting a
relatively small fire in the Klamath Forest.

There were no caskets. There were no ministers. There were no wreaths. There
were no hearses. There were only the friends, other firefighters, and townspeople
who wanted to remember the people who died to save other people from the
destructiveness of fire.

There were a few flowers from the gardens in town. A vase for each person. Three
vases. Each vase held some white flowers. White is for purity. These were people
with purity of spirit, that childlike, trusting, positive spirit. The spirit that believes
that when something is wrong, it can be made right. The spirit that believes it can
make things right. Each of these people believed that when there is a fire, it can be
stopped, and they are the ones who are willing and able to stop it. That is a strong spirit.

Each of the vases contained a red flower. Red for the fire they fought against. And red
for passion. They had a passion for living, a passion for being active and out-of-doors, a
passion for working together with others to do the right thing.

Each of the vases contained oranges, and pinks, and yellows. The colors of the
sunrises and sunsets they saw more often than people with regular jobs. The colors
of all the sunrises and sunsets they will no longer see. At least from down below. I
wonder what sunrises and sunsets look like from above?

And most of the flowers were still buds, not wide open flowers. These were people who
were still young. They had not lived fully opened lives yet. Even the crew chief, at age 51,
is considered young in our society.

Who would have believed us if we had wished Steven a "Happy Birthday" and had
"Welcome to Middle Age" balloons at his twenty-sixth birthday party? Or
considered Heather middle-aged at her fifteenth birthday? Or who in his right
mind would think John, a ten-year-old, was half finished with his living? All of
these were young people just beginning to plan and live their lives. And when
they went out in the truck that day, they were still planning their tomorrows.

Whatever God you believe in, it is a blessing to each of us that we do not see
our endings. That is, it's only a blessing if we treasure each today, because
we do not know about our tomorrows. If we presume our tomorrows and
misuse our today’s, we often waste perfectly good opportunities to
appreciate each other, opportunities to look at the sunrises and sunsets,
opportunities to tingle to the small incredible sensations of breathing,
and laughing and crying, and sleeping and dreaming, and waking and
beginning again.

It's sad to waste a day. These three wasted no days. On their last
evening, they got ready to go out and do the job they had chosen,
with each other, with that strong, positive spirit that says "I can
make a difference in this world." They made a difference. Even
now, as they affect each of us, they continue to make a difference.

When the memorial service was ending, I felt the proper compulsion
to sing something religious, "Amazing Grace", or "A Mighty Fortress
is Our God", something uplifting. But I'm a mother. All I could get to
come out was:

"Sleep my child
and peace attend thee
all through the night.
Guardian angels
will attend thee
all through the night."

And I cried for three people I never met.

Marilyn Townsend, a resident of Happy Camp, California