Until today.
I received a phone call this morning informing me that Meadville Fire chief Tunie Hedrick had passed away of an apparent heart attack at 58 years of age. It was my editor Pat Bywater who knew that this loss was something we at The Meadville Tribune had to acknowledge in a big and respectful way in order to inform the public as well as pay honor to a long-time public servant. He wanted to know if I knew of when we might have taken Tunie's picture on duty.
As a newspaper person my first thoughts were about just that. When did I photograph him last? And though I know I have had Tunie in the frame of my camera countless times over the last 17 years, I just couldn't remember a specific time or fire scene where i had his picture.
Except for this frame I took 14 years ago in 2000.
Its not an exceptionally great photograph, to be honest I messed up the exposure even, shooting it too dark and underexposed which was devastating with the first few digital cameras. But though it wasn't exceptional it has always stood out to me and I think of the moment often because of what the chief did that day.
I wrote a little piece for the paper today about this picture. I was super-rushed given the personal commitments i had and wished I had more time, but as a newspaper person, I did what I could in the time given. And this wasn't something you could do in advance given that it was a real shock!
Here is what I wrote: (forgive how long this post will be!)
"I think about this moment a lot.
In September 2000, I was sent to a garage fire in Meadville. By the time I
arrived, the fire was already out and it hadn¹t spread to neighboring
houses, which was the initial fear. There was also the fear of explosions
from gas cans or other flammables inside the typical garage.
When I arrived on scene, saw the fire was under control and nothing
exploded, I was thinking about leaving since it seemed like a non-story
overall. No one was hurt and only a garage was damaged.
But I noticed Meadville Fire Chief Larndo ²Tunie² Hedrick talking to a
police officer and a couple of adults. In the background were two young
boys, probably 12 and 13 years old, looking worried and a little scared as
they sort of shuffled back and forth with their heads down ‹ occasionally
looking over at the conversation of adults.
I took a few photos and just hung out to see what was going to happen.
Hedrick and the police officer called the boys over to have a discussion. I
wasn¹t invited to the conversation, but I could tell what was going on. They
were in trouble.
Then I saw something I didn¹t expect.
The chief took the boys up the driveway to get a close-up look.
It was then I saw the chief put his arm around one of the boys who by this
time was crying and probably terrified about what punishment was coming his
way.
I took a picture.
This photo became one of my favorite pictures of the year because of how I
was moved by this man taking time to use this bad situation to teach a
lesson to two young boys who could¹ve been responsible for so much more
devastation and even loss of life by playing around with something as
dangerous as fire.
And he did it calmly as a teacher, not as an authority
figure scolding them.
I gained so much respect for this man through this act of not just doing his
job, but his compassion by comforting these boys as he had them look
over the destruction.
This moment comes into my mind a lot when I think about how firefighters
have to put their lives at risk with even the smallest of situations, about
how many fires are probably avoidable and how that must wear on them
emotionally.
And yet, here was this man showing what kind of person it takes to be a
firefighter and community leader with a simple touch of a young person¹s
shoulder during a very frightening time in his young life."
This was something that really has stuck with me all these years. We have photographs we remember and the reason we do is because of the extraordinary people doing extraordinary things that we are witness too. During my few hours between personal commitments today I was able to find this image and write a little bit, not enough, but a little bit. As I talked with my friend Cheryl Hatch on the phone she reminded of something recently posted on Facebook about a photojournalist named Michel du Cille who passed away only a few days ago, ironically at 58 and of a heart attack.
"This is what we do!"
So I guess that is why when I heard that the chief's body was going to be brought back into town with a full procession during my window between commitments I felt I should be apart of the coverage. "This is what we do!"
Shannon Roae, our full-time photographer was on duty and it was her assignment, but I wanted to add to her coverage in anyway I could So I went to make some pictures. When I got on the scene it made me feel my little story I had just written for the paper was insignificant. There were scores of firefighters and families who had many many many more stories to tell and who knew this man much better than I.
I was moved by this and felt deep sadness. "But this is what we do!" I realized I needed to do what I do to show respect to this man and make pictures to show the loss to community and to family. So I came back in and worked on my story a little more later on.
I don't like making pictures of grieving family members, but that is what shows the importance of understanding the depth of loss. It's easy to read a headline that a fire chief died and if you didn't know him you might not think much more about it. You might think oh thats too bad or maybe RIP - god bless!
But the people in this picture above are his family and they they lost someone they love. We can imagine that and see in their faces our own. And if we do that we can feel their loss--or at least a small piece of their loss.
I guess I hope that if we all take a small piece of a loss then maybe we can help in the grieving???
I don't know.
What I didn't expect was found while walking back to the paper to file my pictures before my next appointment. There was a man standing all alone on the corner of Diamond Park at attention.
Stoic.
His name is William Joseph Catlin and he told me he was a Marine and worked in Law Enforcement. "I always do that when there is a fallen officer" he said after the procession had passed by him. "To show respect!"