Flames from the Ross fire burn brush on Tuesday, near Palo Pinto, Texas.
ElÃas Valverde II/TNS
My parents went food shopping, leaving my brothers and sister downstairs watching television. I was up in my room — a bored 11-year-old lying on my back, eager for an adventure.
As I looked up, there it was: my gray B-17 World War II Flying Fortress. I had meticulously glued it together, strictly following the instructions that came with the model kit. When I finished attaching all the pieces, I tied a string to the plane and hung it from my ceiling. Each night, I fell asleep imagining I was Clark Gable, the Hollywood actor who actually trained as a gunner on a B-17.
Downstairs, the loud television blared in the living room. I had flown my Flying Fortress many times in my room — making plane sounds, bombing my pillow and taking daring dives just over the floor. But that day, I wanted real action. I stood up and yanked the plane until the string snapped. I grabbed a box of forbidden matches from my desk drawer and ran out to the terrace outside my parents’ bedroom.
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Now, I thought, I was going to see a realistic dogfight. I lit a match and touched the small flame to the tip of the plastic airplane’s wing. It quickly caught fire.
Burning plastic turns into thick, black smoke. To me, that was great.
When half of the wing was engulfed in flames, I leaned over the railing and heaved the burning plane into the air while making desperate engine sounds: “Errrr! Arrrr! Arrrr! Errrr!”
I was thrilled watching the plane spin as if it had been shot down in mid-air. Then, the plane crashed into a pile of dry leaves lined up against the side of the house. The leaves instantly ignited. The plane kept burning. Black smoke rose into my terror-stricken face. I realized, with horror, that I was going to burn the house down!
I sprinted outside, grabbed the hose, and smothered the burning leaves and melting plastic. In a sudden flash, I realized that everything I knew as a child could have been destroyed in the jaws of a raging fire. Just like that.
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This afternoon, while eating lunch on the deck surrounded by oak trees and garden flowers, I listened to a turtledove until my wife stepped out of the house.
“Chris,” she said. “Something awful.”
When I entered the house, there it was on the screen: flames larger than giant dragons, fire swallowing up trees, fields and homes. Black smoke. The silhouettes of firefighters dragging hoses. Helicopters and planes dropping flame retardants from the air.
Then the reporter spoke: “Devastation just west of Fort Worth. The fire spread overnight to 50,000 acres! 42,000 people evacuated!”
Fort Worth! How can I write a frivolous column about a foolish boy burning his model B-17 bomber when 42,000 people are being forced from their homes? People I know.
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Each time I visit Texas, every person I meet — at DFW International Airport, in shops and restaurants, in people’s homes, and at The Dallas Morning News — is warm, gracious, and helpful. The reputation of southern hospitality is alive and well in Texas. But now, their homes are on fire. What can I do?
My son is a full-time firefighter in the second-largest city in New Jersey. Each time I watch the evening news and see his company fighting flames lashing out of apartment windows, or see a firefighter standing on the roof of a burning building, my heart stops. I want to leap into the screen, find my boy, drag him home, and sit with him to show him how to build a model B-17.
On Nov. 12, 2022, at the Wings Over Dallas airshow, a horrific midair collision occurred between the B-17 Texas Raiders and a P-63F Kingcobra. The crash killed the five crew members in the bomber and the pilot of the fighter: Craig Hutain, Kevin Michels, Curt Rowe, Leonard Root, Dan Ragan and Terry Barker.
One was a former commercial airline pilot; another had dedicated years to the Civil Air Patrol. Terry was a retired Army pilot, and Dan was a Navy veteran. They were men from Keller, the Houston area and Dallas. They were men who loved to fly and loved to entertain crowds with a vintage Flying Fortress that seemed to fly right out of the history books. Good men.
Then, all at once, they were gone.
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Airplanes explode. Fires destroy hundreds of homes. People lose everything while I sit drinking iced tea on my deck on an August evening.
I cannot reconcile the sorrow that spills out of the TV screen with the quiet evening I am enjoying.
I fly to Dallas-Fort Worth two or three times a year. I know Texas. I remember the thrill I felt as a child watching my toy plane spin over the railing of the terrace, imagining a crash — then, boom, the leaves are on fire. Decades later, the destruction is real: Bam, a B-17 explodes in a tragic accident and good men die. Wham, North Texas is on fire. Homes are destroyed. People are evacuated amidst fear, heat and sorrow.
We all know that famous line: “Darkness endures through the night, but joy comes in the morning.” But what about the day after that? New tragedies and new sorrows always follow.
In one of her poems, Emily Dickinson wrote, “If I can stop one heart from breaking, I shall not live in vain.” This is one of the bits of wisdom that I live by.
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If a silly boy who once dabbled with matches can grow up to honor the good men who died in a horrible accident, if I can extend even a single word of comfort to the people of Texas who are losing everything to these flames, and if I can honor the men and women fighting this fire, then I shall not live in vain.
This newspaper gives me the privilege to reach into the homes and hearts of thousands of people. My message to those suffering is this: Do not let the loss of your loved ones or the devastation of this horrible fire destroy who you essentially are. We never give up hope and goodness all at once.
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