THESE MEN
THESE WOMEN
This is July 25, 2022 blog
By H. W. Bryce
Our brave, brave men and women
who fought the flames,
the vicious flames of double 03
that ravaged our forests, ate our trees,
spurred by howling wind and burning sun,
a fiend that fed upon itself
like a rogue dragon spouting flame and eating all—
we tip our hats.
These men, the brave few four men
who got trapped inside four walls of flame
gobbling up the ground and all shelter for them,
they’re not to blame
for they fought for us!
“What shall we do?”
“What can we do?”
they cried one to another.
“There’s no place for us to run.”
“Hold!” cried one.
“We shall fight.
We’ll save whate’er we can.
We’ll fight, ’cause that’s what we do.
We’ll fight.”
And so they fought,
with pick and shovel,
tears and sweat,
till at last our good God
brought them reprieve
and the tongues of flames were stalled.
They saw a path, a narrow path
of blackened, charred and fallen trees,
a path of ash and smoke – and threat…
They ran, they grasped their tools and ran,
they fled the flames of hell.
They saw the face of death…
and they were spared.
Thank God.
We tip our hats to them.
Others stood back in the town
as Hell itself gathered melting hot upon the hill.
“We’ll give them that side of the street,”
the chieftain said,
“But here we’ll make our stand.”
And then they fought the vicious flames,
the greedy, greedy flames,
and saved half a street of homes,
even though some fighters lost their own…
and still they fought on,
and on…
We tip our hats to them,
O weary, weary men.
The people fled,
the lack of training banned them from the fight,
the danger far too great, the risk too high,
as was the heat – one thousand Fahrenheit.
And where the pines exploded
and their bark pieces flew
in glowing coals to ignite another fire—
two thousand degrees, incredible heat—
the rest of Nature herself retreated:
the bears, the snakes, the birds, the goats…
And the people watched,
the whole world watched;
they saw their homes destroyed,
taken down to ash in a very instant,
and knew that all was gone, their very past.
O! The heartbreak!
But yet they said, the people said,
“We shall rebuild.
It’s only things.
At least we’re all alive.”
We tip our hats to them.
Brave folks.
And so, too, were the animals,
alive.
The tame ones left behind were found;
the brave, brave SPCA folk went in,
and found them shelter,
till all could reunite.
And the wild ones, those of the forest,
the bears, the birds, the snakes,
all who had to flee to save their skins,
their homes, their food, their shelter:
all gone!
Only a greyed-out skeletal moonscape stood
where once so much life had thrived.
An entire town
dissolved
by that awful heat…
that holocaust!
The peoples’ livelihoods…
gone!
The mill.
Gone.
For good.
And flaming fingers touched the orchards
in that dry and desert land
where water turns the grasses green
and men and women grow fruit…
and where the verdant forest gave up some space
for ranches, farms, and towns—
places where people live—
all were touched,
all were scarred…
We tip our thankful, grateful, hats!
And each a story to tell,
a story of trial and loss,
of shared fight,
of victory, big and little,
of thanks to the Army who came,
the students who helped,
the firemen of distant towns,
and all the donors,
and all the rest…
the “victims,”
now rebuilding,
to them,
they tip their hats!
Hear their stories.
Help them heal.
— — —
Original painting by Julia M. Schoennagel
