A week ago, I was sitting in the newspaper office doing what we editors do, when the emergency scanner squawked to life. We have a small county and all emergency calls go through the same dispatch and get broadcast to everyone else.
I'm usually only concerned with the calls from the five emergency departments in my readership/circulation area, but it's still interesting to hear what the various departments around the county are dealing with. Of course, as the team captain for our county's Red Cross DAT team, I'm always keeping my ear open to hear if there's a residential structure fire I may be called to respond to.
But I digress.
So the scanner squawks to life, calling for our fire department to respond to a gas leak at our brand new, almost-done-being-built-because-school-starts-in-one-week middle school. Landscapers digging holes for trees that would line the drive had hit a gas line.
"It's a big leak," the police officer on scene told dispatch. "You can actually hear it hissing and see a huge swirl of dust where it's coming out! I'm evacuating everyone in the building and surrounding homes and businesses."
Envisioning what would happen if the middle school exploded a week before school (especially since the old middle school was leveled two months ago) I grabbed my camera and rushed to the scene.
I normally give it a few minutes before rushing out. My husband and son once told me that the some of the other firefighters had complained about seeing me on scene before them all the time. Said it makes some guys feel like they I'm showing them up by being there first.
This time, though, I wasn't waiting. The photographer in me knew there were going to be some great photo ops of people rushing from businesses, etc. And, hey, if the school blew up, that was a photo I just wasn't going to miss, I'm sorry.
I drove to a nearby business, parked farthest from the action, traded out my high heels for more practical shoes, and walked over to the police officer at the edge of the highway turn-off redirecting traffic.
"Where's it at?" I asked. He pointed me in the general direction. I turned my camera and saw what he meant.
"I guess some workers were digging holes to plant trees and cut through a line. They didn't know and about an hour later, someone noticed the smell of gas inside the school and saw what they thought was a dust devil in the lot there. Then they called it in."
It was, indeed, a big leak. I could see what looked like a dust devil, as a swirling cloud of dirt rose from the earth. Unlike a dust devil, though, it didn't move. It remained stationary.
And, yeah, I could smell it.
"Where are the marking flags that show where the underground lines are?" I asked, zooming my lens in and out, noticing there wasn't a single orange marker flag anywhere on the empty lot in front of the school.
"There aren't any that I can see," he said. "I wondered that too."
Within seconds, I could hear the sirens of the trucks coming down the highway. We both turned to look at the trucks as they approached us and turned down the drive, passing us as they turned the corner.
I saw my son lean forward in the front of the ladder truck, staring at me. He pointed back toward my car, jabbing his finger. I smiled and shook my head.
The cop laughed and shook his head.
"If a firefighter tells me you have to move, I'm gonna make you move," he said, as he continued to direct cars away from the road.
The fire trucks came to a stop about 50 yards from us, and the men began to spill out of their trucks, pulling on their gear and going off in the various directions as ordered by their chief.
I heard the chief talking to the dispatch, asking if the school was evacuated. After a few seconds, she reported back that she was on the line with the principal. He reported that when the leak was discovered, they were told to stay in the building until further notice. In addition to the 20 or so construction workers on site, there were also about 40 staff, there for their first in-service day in the new school.
The chief sent two firefighters over to the school, and within a few minutes, I could see a people walking quickly away from the building to a street that leads to another school a few blocks away.
Satisfied the building was clear, the chief began issuing orders to his department.
I've been a reporter longer than my men have been firefighters, so I knew the drill. I stayed far back, used my zoom lens liberally, and waited until the situation was over to approach anyone for information or quotes.
I watched the firefighters, unable to distinguish who was who. I couldn't even discern which was my child. I saw one who looked to be about his size toward the back of the truck.
I sighed inwardly with relief. He wasn't near the leak. If it blew for some reason, he'd be protected from the initial blast by the truck.
I started moving around the edge of the business, staying well out of the way.
I saw two firefighters near the leak. They had hoses pointed toward it, poised for action should it be necessary.
Soon, the gas company truck arrived. The worker talked to the chief, saw the leak, whistled and wiped his brow, and got on his own radio.
He grabbed some equipment from his truck, put on a mask, and the chief pointed to the two firefighters near the leak, then to the leak. The man nodded and began walking toward the swirl coming from the hold in the ground.
One of the firefighters held back while another grabbed the line, pulled it over his shoulder and began to run after the worker, toward the leak.
I had been taking photos but I could tell these photos of the running firefighter were good. Real good.
After a few minutes, the worker had turned off the gas line, the swirling had stopped, and everyone began to relax.
When I saw contractors and school janitors walking toward the hole in the ground, I figured I could go in too, so I walked over.
It had, indeed, been a big leak. There was a two-inch hole cut into a two-inch line.
I looked around and saw absolutely no markings of any underground lines. No flags. No pink spray paint. Nothing.
I looked at the general contractor and asked if anyone had called the Digger's Hotline before digging. He called me a few choice names, and stormed off.
"Guess not," I said to one of the firefighters, who was standing near me, peering down into the hole at the big hole.
He also happens to be on the school board.
"Guess not," he said.
"Seems like that's something you should know to do if you're just finishing up building a $15 million school and school starts in a week, huh?" I said.
"Seems like," he said, grinning.
Just then, we could hear the fire chief yelling at not only the contractor but everyone involved in the dig.
"That thing leaked for God knows how long and I can only imagine what would have happened to the poor SOB who walked by and tossed his (expletive deleted) cigarette near that leak. We'd be picking pieces of his body from every damn tree and roof top for a square mile! We don't volunteer to risk our lives because someone couldn't pick up a damn phone and call the diggers hotline before digging big holes in the earth!"
He was still swearing under his breath and shaking his head as he passed me.
I kept my questions to a minimum.
As the department cleared the scene, I saw my son waving out a truck window at me.
I finished my questions for the contractor and went back to the paper.
As I downloaded the photos, I could tell right away which photo was going to be my front page photo. It was one of shots of the firefighter pulling the hose over his shoulder and running after the gas worker toward the leak.
"Damn, that is a good photo!" I said out loud to everyone in the office. One by one, they came over and looked at the photo on my computer. They all agreed it was good.
"That one just might win you and award," someone said. I grinned.
"Well, most award-winning photos are of firefighters," I said.
"Who is that, anyway?" someone asked.
I zoomed in the photo and gasped.
"OH MY GOD! THAT IS MY CHILD!!!!" I said, jumping up.
'How do you know?" they asked. I pointed to the name on the back of his helmet. It was him.
"I cannot BELIEVE he was sent into that leak like that!!! He could have been KILLED! Why did the chief send him in like that?!?! He's just a baby! OH MY GOD!"
Everyone around me started laughing.
"So it's an awesome award-winning photo when it's someone ELSE'S son rushing in, but it's different when it's your son?"
"Well, YEAH! DUH!" I said, laughing. "Of COURSE it's different, geesh!"
I felt like Bad Mom of The Year. My son had rushed into that dangerous situation and I'd had NO idea it was him.
After I calmed down a bit, I looked at the series of photos and replayed the events in my head.
My final conclusion was: 1) it was a hell of a photo and I was running it, as planned, front page above the fold, in color. 2) My son was a firefighter and this was what he was going to do with his life. Cope, Mom, cope. 3) His chief had chosen him to do the job because he believed he could handle it.
That night, as we sat around eating dinner, we talked about the leak. My son told of how excited he was to be "near the action."
I told of how annoyed I was to learn the awesome photo I'd taken of a firefighter running into danger was of my own SON.
My son told of how annoyed HE was to come in on a firetruck and see his mother standing less than 300 yards from a huge gas leak.
My husband looked at me and said, "All these years, I've seen the photos you've taken of various fires and accidents, read the stories, and never realized how close to danger you actually get with your job. Now that I do, I bite my tongue and remind myself you know what you're doing. How about you do the same for us."
I thought about his lecture a few seconds, looked at my son, and we both shrugged then raised and clinked our beer bottles.
"Here's to living life on the edge," I said. "If you aren't living, you're dying."