Today marks the third anniversary of my father's death. That may not mean much to you, but it does to me.

I can't pick up a tool without thinking about my dad. He was always helping me around my house, even when I wasn't here. Although my father never studied past the eighth grade, he was so smart in so many ways. I am constantly reminded of him when his dad-isms and life lessons resonate in my mind.

And I am reminded of him every time I look at my children: Kathleen, who is named after my mother; and my son Alex, who inherited my father's dry sense of humor - and his golf clubs.

My favorite thing to hear my father say to my kids was repeated whenever he walked in the door or was walking out. He would grab them, pull them close and insist: "Give me a kiss. That way, you won't have so many."

He also taught me that the greatest gift a father can give his children -- is to love their mother. I live that lesson every day with my wife Laurie.

So to remember him today, I decided to resurrect a speech that I gave just a week after he died.

I had the honor of being the guest speaker at the installation dinner for the Langford-New Oregon Fire Company on February 25, 2005.

Many were surprised that I showed up and stuck to my commitment to speak, but as you'll read in this speech, I had my father there with me to guide me and help me through, just as he is every day.

This speech isn't so much about my father as it is about the values he instilled in me -- and about brotherhood.

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Thank you for inviting me to celebrate with you tonight. I consider it an honor and a privilege to be with you.

Several years ago, I decided that fighting fires wasn’t dangerous enough… so I took up public speaking.

To some people, public speaking is the greatest fear they will ever face in their life. Many people, maybe many of you, can run into burning buildings while everyone else is running out. They can stare death right in the face but they’d faint and drown in a pool of sweat before they could stand up and speak in front of a group of people.

My father, Earl Sr., said something to me every day for the first 18 years of my life. Four words I ignored – almost every day for 18 years.

But now those words have meaning every time I find myself writing a long-winded speech or rambling on in an article or story for a newspaper or web site.

Those same four words I disregarded for 18 years straight will help me keep my talk brief tonight. Four words: “Take out the garbage.”

Anyone who knows anything about public speaking will tell you to avoid talking about two particular subjects at all costs: religion and politics. That in mind, I was concerned that I wouldn’t have anything to say tonight.

In fact, when Mick asked me a few months ago to be your guest speaker, I asked him if he still wanted me to come if the red budget went through I was no longer the Deputy Fire Coordinator for Erie County. He said yes.

Then we debated whether I should talk about the way things were – or how they are today. We agreed that I should talk about how things should be.

I thought I’d start by telling you some things you may not know about me. For example, this is my 25th year with the Evans Center Fire Company and I currently serve as Chief of Training.

Although I was born and raised in Evans Center, on Bennett Road across the street from the back driveway to our fire station – I grew up in your driveway, on your farm or maybe even in your house.

You see, my father delivered gasoline and home heating oil for Page & Harms in Eden for 25 years.

As a kid, I would love it when my father would pick me up after school to ride around the countryside in the big blue tanker truck.

I knew where Langford and Lawtons were before I had ever been to Cheektowaga or Tonawanda. We shared hot chocolate and a donut at what my father called “The Greasy Spoon” across from the Legion in Eden. At a very young age I could tell a stranger how to get to Shirley Road, Schintzius Road or Sisson Highway.

I fed the ducks on Winters Pond and I even knew where Speedy’s was in North Collins, although I couldn’t tell you what went on inside.

My Uncle Gerald and Aunt Sue lived on Marshfield Road and my cousins Lee, Linda, Lori and Lisa all went to North Collins High School.

My father has hunted with Frances and David Cohen and the gang longer than I’ve been alive. He got an 8-point buck not far from here just this fall.

But, it’s not just childhood memories that bond me to you.

Now as an adult I have the opportunity to do what I love. I have been blessed to make my career in emergency services. I have the honor of serving the fire service. I have the privilege of serving with you.

I have the opportunity to travel our county’s 1,200 square miles and work alongside some of the best people in our community. Good people helping good people.

I went to 7 fires last week alone, including your barn fire just down the street. I had come from a fire in Alden and I left Langford to go review a fire in Wales Center.

I was there with you in Collins Center on Christmas Eve when you took care of your neighbors on what was probably the worst day of their lives.

Despite losing almost everything they owned, they – and you – knew that what really matters is that everyone got out alive and that they still had you and each other to lean on.

That’s the beauty of the volunteer fire service. That’s the real brotherhood and sisterhood that brings us together – and keeps us together.

Here's my definition of brotherhood in the fire service:

It’s the fact that no matter what patch we wear on our left sleeve – we all wear the same red, white and blue patch on our right sleeve – the one with the stars and stripes on it.

The fire service is what’s right about America.

That’s what bonds us together, always.

And no one… no politician and no budget battle – can ever take that away from us.

Thank you and God bless each and every one of you.

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My Dad was 81 when he passed away on February 18, 2005. He was fishing the day before he went in the hospital, and golfing the day before that. He lived and loved life to the fullest.

My father's dry sense of humor was something that he bestowed on anyone regardless of their background or status, and many times, whether they wanted it or not.

And if you know any Schmittendorf, you know that sense of humor – a gift or a curse, I’m not sure which – is like our facial features and receding hairlines – it’s passed on from generation-to-generation.

He taught me that with privilege comes responsibility. We learned that first-hand in the cornfields and strawberry patch behind our house on Bennett Road.

And he taught us about duty, honor, discipline, fairness, honesty, and integrity. He demonstrated and taught us commitment to family, friends, neighbors and our community. Lessons I try to live each day.

My father was many things to many people.

Most of all he was a survivor. He survived tours of duty in World War II and Korea, 2 Purple Hearts, 3 heart attacks, 2 strokes, 11 kids, 31 grandchildren, and four great-grandchildren.

He was a husband, father, brother, soldier, fellow parishioner, uncle, truck driver, fisherman, pinochler, brother-in-law, hunter, carpenter, godfather, plumber, horseshoe player, grandfather, handyman, church leader, great-grandfather… and a great-friend to many.

He was my best friend.