My Pesonal 9/11 Memory: To FDNY

My entire family is from Staten Island, NY. I was born in a small town called Port Richmond.

My Mom and Dad grew up on the Island, as did my Mom’s parents. The Schmidt side immigrated from Germany in the early 1900s.

My Mom’s father, Papa Harry, joined the New York City fire department in his twenties. As he told the story, he was one of few non-Irish or non-Italians in that job.

Over the years of my childhood, he told many stories about horrible fires in horrible tenements or horrible factories. Few fire escapes, few safety measures, and many citizens and many firefighters hurt and killed.

At one time or another, he was stationed in every borough, and could recall ship fires, high-rise fires, or subway fires.

His last station before retiring as a Captain was a ladder company in New Brighton, Staten Island.

I remember that old station so well. Across the street in a second story apartment lived an aunt and uncle. Every year, either on Thanksgiving, Christmas, or Easter, the family would gather there for dinner. And all day long, I’d spend hours looking down on the doors of that stationhouse and watch the fire engines come and go.

In those days, fireman and policemen were among the few working on holidays. There were no grocery stores open, no 7-11s, no MacDonalds. Only hospitals, cops, and firemen were busy during those holidays.

When my Mom or Dad said grace before diner, a short prayer for firemen was always included.

In the 1960s, Papa Harry the fireman died and my aunt and uncle moved to Pinellas Park. Since then, I hadn’t given that old firehouse on Richmond Terrace much thought, or the fact that it was so close to where the Staten Island ferry docks.


Until 9/11….Or in Particular, the Day After.

We all cringed watching 9/11 unfold and we all have stories.

The day after 9/11, my 84 year old Mom called from New Jersey. She was in tears. She told me that the entire shift from that old firehouse, now Engine Co. 155 and Ladder Co 78, were first responders to the Trade Center after the first jet hit. They took the Staten Island ferry to Battery Park, Manhattan, right next to the Trade Center, and immediately entered the first tower and headed up stairs engaged in rescue missions.

If you know fire fighters, they don’t ask many questions in the face of grave danger. They obey orders and begin their duty.

When the tower collapsed, all 13 died. In all, New York lost over 360 fire fighters on 9/11.

My Mom was heartbroken. Too many memories of past horrors….and now new horrors to be remembered.

She was so proud of her father. She also knew he’d be proud of those guys from his former station in New Brighton.

After that phone call, I found Papa Harry’s FDNY retirement ring. I take it out now every 9/11. To me, it represents a bunch of heroic son of a bitches.

posted by admin @ 8:30 PM