Firefighters and my Uncle Carl

As I left the coliseum memorial service for the nine lost firefighters on Friday, I scanned the city and state names on the many vehicles and the emblem patches on the sleeves of firefighters that lined the driveways of the North Charleston Coliseum complex.

Trucks that declared Miami, Augusta, Greenville, North Carolina and emblems from New York, New Jersey, Texas, Ohio mingled with those from all over South Carolina.

Among the in-state vehicles was one from Camden, S.C., my hometown. It was a mid-size, burgundy SUV with the words Camden Fire Department in gold letters emblazoned on the doors.

I made my way over the SUV and the firefighter who stood next to it. I wanted to meet him. I have a soft spot for the Camden Fire Department because my Uncle Carl Hammond was the Fire Chief there for many years. (By the way, his wife, my Aunt Caroline, was from Eutawville in upper Berkeley County.) He started the Camden Rescue Squad and helped build the department into the very fine operation it is today.

During my growing up years, whenever a high-profile fire happened in Camden, he'd come by to talk to my mother, his sister, about it afterward. I'm not sure they knew I was listening, but I was and I took the stories to heart.

There was the story about the fireworks stand that caught fire and ended in tragedy. And the retelling of the Cleveland schoolhouse fire that happened near Camden before Uncle Carl's time, but which shaped many of the laws that are on the books in South Carolina today. Many lives were lost because an entrance was partially blocked.

I've always been a little more careful about fireworks and blocked exits than the average person because of those overheard stories.

Uncle Carl was passionate about his work. And it was work that nearly ended in tragedy for him one day when a fire began on a farm at a fuel pump.

When the engine arrived, Uncle Carl went toward the failed fuel pump that was the source of the fire. But he was too late to succeed. The pump exploded as he approached and he was caught in the ensuing inferno. He was badly burned over most of his body.

As his fellow firefighters rushed to help him, he called to them not to touch him, that he was too badly burned. He crawled out of the inferno on his knees and elbows, knowing that their helping hands could actually remove his charred skin and worsen his injuries.

As he lay in the hospital, no one knew whether or not he would make it. For months he battled his way back, and eventually healed and returned to his work at the fire station. During his long recovery, his men helped look after his wife and children, a family of people who knew all too well that they could have been the ones injured.

His daughter (and my favorite cousin) Cathy was a junior in high school when he was burned. It colored her remaining school years. She took a job at Belk's to help supplement the family income.

Her friends rallied around her and named her Homecoming Queen. A friend helped buy her dress for a school dance. It was white with little red hearts on it. It was the most beautiful dress my 13-year-old eyes had ever seen. There were multiple little kindnesses that meant a lot to a teenager and to the whole family.

Whenever a firefighter is hurt or killed, those months of wondering if Uncle Carl would be okay come flooding back to me. Friday, at the coliseum, when I shook the hand of the firefighter from Camden, I told him I was Carl's niece.

"I met your uncle, but only after he retired. He'd come by the station every now and again," he said, "But I've heard the stories about him and know how much he did for the department. He was a great fire chief."

As the Lowcountry moves forward, there will be opportunities to remember the men who died and to offer little acts of kindness to the loved ones who are left behind. Let's keep them in our thoughts, prayers and actions.

It won't be over for them this week or next. It shouldn't be over for us either.