That is All: Rolling Thunder

We journalists are witnesses to history, and sadly many historic events are tragic.
A tremendously sad history unfolded last week as nine Charleston firefighters died in the line of duty. Their deaths and the proceeding outpouring of sorrow, support and spirit from the community — and from fellow firefighters from far away — was incredible and powerful.
I covered last Friday's memorial service at the North Charleston Coliseum and will never forget what I witnessed.
Charleston Mayor Joseph P. Riley Jr. spoke of history in honoring the firefighters.
"As they entered that burning building, they walked into the pages of history of our community. These unassuming, humble, kind and brave men will now and always be historic figures, and we will find ways to honor them. They will never be forgotten," he said.
For me, the enormity of the loss began to take hold the moment I saw that stately row of nine flag-draped caskets and the poster-sized photos of the fallen firefighters.
In the big picture view, the horrific night of June 18 was a loss to the city, the Lowcountry, the state and beyond, as the extended family of the Charleston Nine filled the coliseum to the rafters.
But the smaller picture helped me focus on the more intimate loss.
Once the Charleston Fire Department personnel filled out the bulk of the seating on the ground floor, the procession of nine families began.
The deep personal loss became crystal clear as I looked toward the front of the arena to see row upon row of chairs left empty for the fallen firefighters' families — clusters of moms and dads, sons and daughters, brothers and sisters.
These families, forever bound by a moment in time, marched forward as the Charleston Symphony Orchestra played. The size of the families varied but all were noteworthy in the number of mournful faces, and one family alone numbered near 90.
The family members walked slowly by their lost loved one, gazing up at the man's picture, lightly brushing their fingertips along the casket's edge.
The soft music was broken by an explosive shuddering sob, so heart wrenching you wanted to look away because it was such an agonizingly private moment.
I will not forget what I witnessed.
I live in Summerville not far from the fire station. I'd gotten so used to hearing the sirens wail and blare on the speeding fire trucks, it became like Muzak, like non-descript background noise — until last Monday night.
Since June 18, I am mesmerized by the sound.
Each and every fire run makes me stop, makes me think, makes me wonder: Where are they rushing to, is it a false alarm or a raging inferno, are there people trapped inside, will anyone get hurt or die?
The basic purpose of the flashing lights and wailing sirens is to clear the path of pedestrians and motorists — affording emergency responders a clear and safe route to get to their destination fast.
The sirens I hear these days somehow mean so much more.
And maybe that's the way it should be.
That is all.