The Life of Amy An almost lifelong resident of Fairfield, I will share my thoughts on the everyday to the extraordinary and may even impart some of my "wisdom" along the way. I promise some updates on my twin daughters and whatever else "you need to know."
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As I turned off Rancho Solano Parkway on to Waterman Boulevard Monday night, coming down the road were three fire trucks, one right after the other.
Ttears began to well up in my eyes.
I thought about these brave men — and women— many of them who probably hadn’t been home in a few days, putting their lives on the line for us.
Here I sit, a few miles away, from what was an inferno, complaining about the smell of smoke. I can only imagine what it must have been like on the front line.
I complain when it gets too hot. I don’t even want to think about how hot it must have been on Twin Sisters.
I think sometimes we forget our firefighters, possibly because we don’t see them every day. We only seem to call for them in a time of crisis.
Let me also say, I am the proud sister-in-law of a recently retired Fairfield Fire Department captain who put in 35 years and the current Fairfield Fire Department deputy chief.
When I saw those fire trucks, I wished there had been some type of homecoming parade for the unsung heroes.
If traffic had permitted, I probably would have waited for the trucks to get next to me, and I would have started tooting my horn and yelling “thank you” and giving the thumbs up.
You don’t have to go to that extreme. But, next time you see a firefighter, just tell him or her a simple “thank you” for a job well done.
I’ll admit I did want the Boston Celtics to win the NBA Championship when it was narrowed down to two teams.
But, I didn’t want such a lopsided victory.
We had seen comebacks, even miraculous ones during this series. So, when the Celtics took a pretty commanding lead in the second quarter, I decided it was worth my time to continue watching.
During the third quarter the point spread grew. My kids kept telling me to give up on the game and watch some television with them. I reminded them that despite the Celtics 30-plus point lead, miracles can happen and it was still anybody’s game.
Then, it was time for the fourth quarter and the Celtics were so in charge. But I refused to give up.
I wanted to see hints of a Lakers comeback. I wanted to see them at least bring the point difference to less than double digits.
Alas, it was not to be. Finally, after the Celtics began hugging each other, I gave myself permission to walk away from the last game of the season.
I watched “America’s Funniest Videos” with the girls, being lucky (?) enough to see some tapes being played backward.
I tucked them into bed. Tuned into “Hell’s Kitchen.” At the first commercial break, I flipped back to ABC to see Paul Pierce thanking the fans for sticking by them.
To top off the Celtics glorious victory, the “evil, back-stabbing, I’m the greatest thing ever” Jen got the boot on “Hell’s Kitchen.”
Now I’m left to ponder the 2008-09 NBA season. Will Kobe stop licking his lips on the court? Can Steve Nash do away with the nasty habit of smearing his saliva on his hand, then touching the ball? And can Dirk Nowitzki keep his mouth guard in even when play stops?
I won’t have these answers until November.
A little more than a year ago, I started delivering communion to the homebound once a month.
Friday marked the first time I had to deal with the death of one of the people I visited on the third Sunday of each month.
And, he died on his 48th wedding anniversary.
The first time I met Paul Bracco, he seemed a little gruff, but not frightening. Then, I learned he was just a big teddy bear.
I would often pick up the Sunday copy of the Daily Republic and take it into his house. It would be a few months before he discovered I wrote for the newspaper.
I would knock on the door and he would always yell “come in.” I’d make my way around the oxygen cords to find him at the kitchen table.
The first few times I visited Paul, he was alone. His wife Vivian was in a skilled nursing facility for rehabilitation.
And, that was the same case the last time I saw Paul in May.
Except, Paul wasn’t doing so good. He was having an extremely hard time breathing. When he caught his breath he told me had been in the hospital, after driving himself there and that Vivian was in the skilled nursing facility again for more rehabilitation.
He asked me a favor: Could I run to McDonald’s and bring him back some food? I was happy to help.
I left him my phone numbers and told to call if he needed anything.
Before I left he wanted to know if I would take communion to Vivian. I made one more stop, the last on my route, and went to see Vivian. We chatted a little. I told her I expected to see her home the next time.
When I called Saturday night to see if Vivian was home I learned the news Paul had died the evening before. Again, after driving himself to the hospital.
I really can’t tell you Paul’s history. We talked about the small stuff.
Suffice it to say he often went shopping at the commissary after I delivered communion and we compared prices on yogurt.
One time, I forgot my reading glasses and he read the Gospel for me.
Another time we discussed our different approaches to making stew.
I always looked forward to our chats though they were often short.
I think the score is:
I’m now going on my 24th hour without being able to access my work e-mail.
Rumor has it, when I finally get into my inbox, I may not have any e-mails residing within. If that’s the case, I’m pretty much up the proverbial creek without a paddle.
I used to say people who communicated via e-mail were anti social. Now, I’ve come to depend on it and even gotten to the point where I don’t keep many phone numbers, because, after all, many of them are contained in the e-mails. And, if they aren’t, I just send an e-mail.
I’ve gone folder crazy in my inbox. I’ve got things so specific, I’ve got entire folders dedicated to everyone from the Hipwaders to James Blunt.
I break story ideas down by the month the event is occurring.
I know at least one of the IT guys here gets a chuckle at my the “organization” of my e-mail.
Right now, I kind of feel like I don’t know what is happening in the world.
I’ve got a copy of the paper to mail someone, but their address is, you guessed it, in my e-mail.
I was supposed to do a phone interview today. The phone number, right again, is in my e-mail.
I scheduled an in-home interview via e-mail. The directions are in the e-mail and his name is not in the phone book.
I’m beginning to think getting my iPod set up was a cake walk.
This will be my first Father’s Day without my father to honor.
I vividly recall Father’s Day 2007. We celebrated it the day before because my family was boarding a red-eye flight for a visit to Disneyworld. As it was, we arrived there about 9 a.m. Florida time, Father’s Day.
While we waited for our flight out of San Francisco, the night before, the girls, Jim and I called to wish dad a happy Father’s Day.
The girls and I had visited him earlier that day after having pictures taken and purchasing him a new pair of pants and shirt. All were Father’s Day gifts.
He was happy. Yet, both of us knew we would miss each other in the six days we would be gone.
I was in the habit of going over at night, reading him the newspaper and assisting him with a shower.
Someone else would help with the latter. The former would just have to wait for my return.
We always found time to discuss topics du jour. Whether it be sports, politics or just what I and/or he was feeling.
Some of my siblings spent Father’s Day with him. I think I called him at least two more times that day, sharing all the fun we were having.
Little did I know two months later he would no longer be with us physically. But his spirit still lives on within all who knew him.