Dust, Fire, and Heroes

For days, just outside of town, where the paved roads turned to dirt, clouds of dust rose up from the rough gravel lane whenever a vehicle passed over it. A powdery beige film coated the roadside vegetation, obscuring the natural colors and leaving everything dull and muted. The relentless summer sun, high temperatures, and weeks without rain left the grass crunchy, brown, and dormant. Kitchen gardens yielded limp and drooping stalks, with leaves so yellowed and curled that plants were unrecognizable. The pulverized gravel hung in the air, drifting slowly across the yard, onto the open porch, and through the window screens like a gritty ghost determined to settle into every corner it could find.

The weather outlook for today had become more of a tease than a promise of relief, much like the failed promise of the kitchen gardens. An early morning mix of sun and clouds had kept everyone in Tyler's Corner hopefully expecting that rain was coming, but any chance of showers fizzled out faster than a summer romance.

Folks in town didn't experience dust rising from the paved roads. Instead, waves of heat flickered up off the roads, sidewalks, and buildings like phantom flames, bending the air and making the whole town seem to waver. In spite of the heat, Joe Turner had unlocked his doors at seven this morning. He looked out at the empty streets from the plate glass window of his hardware store. He was thinking about that Noel Coward song, “Only Mad Dogs and Englishmen Go Out in the Midday Sun.” Business had been slow for weeks.

Aside from brisk sales of fans when this heat wave started, Turner's store traffic had dried up like the creek out by the railroad tracks. Turner had checked out the creek early this morning, before the sun climbed too high; it was a transformed landscape.The stream was completely dry, the channel all that was left. Stones and boulders worn smooth by the water's movement were now exposed, lying on cracked sediment. An eerie silence hung in the air, the familiar sound of flowing water, bubbling over rocks, and chirping insects was replaced by stillness.

Turner, who grew up in Tyler’s Corner and who would turn fifty-six in a week, could not remember the creek ever drying up. He hung his “Out to Lunch” sign on the door, locked up, and strolled over to the Rise ‘N Dine Breakfast ‘N Lunch. As he entered the diner, he was greeted by old Monty, a regular, who cackled, “Hot enough for ya?”

“So hot, my shadow’s sweatin’. How you doin’, old man?” asked Turner, joining him at the counter. Josie slapped an ice tea down in front of Turner, saying, “There. Now don't say I never did nothin’ nice for ya,” and half-turned headed across the diner, pausing at a booth where Mike Sullivan and Jimmy Periera were waving for their check.

“Fine as frog hair,” said Monty. Walter Montgomery, known to most as Monty or Monty G, at 86, is a living relic of Tyler’s Corner, his family roots tracing back to the town's original settlers. His appearance is as worn as the town's oldest buildings, with a grizzly demeanor, he is a permanent fixture in his well-worn coveralls. Most days find him at the Rise 'N Dine, nursing a cup of coffee and holding court as the town's unofficial historian and local expert on all things farming related, especially antique tractors. His memory holds the town's stories, anecdotes, and genealogies. “Went out to the creek this morning,” said Turner. “Was as dry as last year's corn stalks. You remember it ever dryin’ up like that?”

“Only one other time come close,” drawled Monty. “Be about 1950, I remember, ‘cause I was sweet on Sally Hartnett that summer. Hot like now, and the creek was near dried right up. County guys come out to inspect it. Worry was that if the creek dried up and one of the freight trains come through, it could start a brush fire. Had a bunch of public meetin’s, squakin’ about a drought emergency, got everybody stirred up, then the rains come and we never saw those County guys again.”

Josie came back, pulling her order pad from her hip like a weapon. A former classmate of Turner's, she's been slinging coffee and balancing plates here for longer than some of her regulars have been alive. She's world-weary with a sharp tongue and known to have an arched eyebrow that rivals the Golden Gate Bridge. “What’s it gonna be, Joe?”

“What's good today, Josie?”

“Menu's the same as yesterday, sugar. And the day before that. Don't act surprised.” Josie's sass is comforting in a strange sort of way, like the aroma of coffee, the hiss of bacon on the griddle, or the clanking of plates; it's part of what makes the Rise ‘N Dine feel like home.

Sullivan and Periera stood by the cash register, money in hand. Josie left Turner before he could put in his order, calling out as she approached the register. “You boys better keep your hoses handy. Monty here's been predictin’ hell’s fire.”

Mike replied, “Don't jinx us, Josie. Last week I thought the brush fire out by Hartnett's fence line was gonna roast us alive. One more day like this….” He trailed off, shaking his head. Both young men were active members of Tyler's Corner Volunteer Fire Department.

Josie took their money, made change, and walked back to finish Turner's order. “I gotta leave that fire fightin’ to the younger guys. I'll do the tuna melt and fries,” he said. “Whenever that freight comes through could be a problem. You ask me, County oughta shut that line down till there's rain.”

Josie snorted. “And cut off half the freight that keeps this town alive? You think the suits in the Capitol care if we’re tinderbox dry?”

“Oh, the fires in hell will go out before that happens,” chimed Monty.

Turner finished up his lunch and stepped back into the glare, squinting toward the tracks. He imagined it was like the desert mirages you see in a movie. From far off, faint as a whisper, he heard the “Whaaaaa! Whaaaaa! Whaa!” shriek of the freight whistle. He glanced reflexively at his watch, noting the time and figuring the train would pass through in the next fifteen minutes.

Too long and too hot to wait to watch it pass, he returned to his shop. With few customers coming in, he spent the afternoon catching up on bookkeeping, and half-listening for the siren call of the volunteer fire department. By five o’clock, he figured any danger from the earlier train was past and closed shop for the day.

The freight had come and gone without incident, but neither Turner, nor anyone else in Tyler's Corner, was ready to celebrate. The line would run again tomorrow on the return trip. Turner thought that the town's safety would hinge on Sullivan, Periera, the other volunteers, and luck.

In the early hours of the next morning, the wind had shifted and picked up in intensity. Storm clouds were building on the horizon, but it looked like another tease. Distant thunder rumbled, but there was no rain. As Turner left his home on the outskirts of town, he could see dust spin up into little whirlwinds on the road. He was thinking about the freight train. It has no regular schedule; you know only that it will return, not when it will return. Today could prove to be a long day.

Turner let the thought hang, the road into town stretching ahead in heat and dust. He arrived at his shop, unlocking doors and turning on lights just like always. The streets remained empty, but today’s quiet was different. The silence seemed to press in and feel heavy with waiting. Time passed, slow and stubborn.

Before noon it came. The first long whistle, clear and distant. Hanging for a beat in the air. Now slicing through the silence like a knife drawn slowly across bone. A low vibration building. Faint but steady. A heartbeat of pounding steel on rails. A driving rhythm. Slow, certain, relentless. Steel striking steel. Boom. Boom. Boom. A drumbeat rolled out ahead of the engine.

Long before it appeared on the horizon, the behemoth announced itself in noise. Then came the billowing dust, falling back from the engine as it bore down on the town like a giant beast with its maw agape, devouring the landscape. The fearsome manifestation tore into view with shrieks and squeals, sparks spitting from its carriage. A rush of hot wind swept by spreading gritty dust and rattling everything in its path.

Then it was gone. A haunting lull settled in its place, as if the whole town was holding its breath. The town looked unchanged, yet it felt like an invisible weight was pressing down on it. A long moment of stillness wrapped in reluctant anticipation, the fragile space in which hope still lives.

There, just past the crossing at the edge of town, a thin curl of smoke rose up from the dry grass, insubstantial at first, like an apparition lifting into the air.

Although no one was nearby to hear it, a crackle sounded, like a snapped twig, followed by another, and another. A small flame, a snake’s tongue, licked through the dry vegetation. A kiss of wind and the snake awakened, becoming a hungry serpent.

The woody, earthy scent of burning brush reached Turner before he could see any signs of smoke or fire. Just as he was reaching for the phone, the siren wail, alerting the volunteer fire department and the public to the emergency, pierced through the ominous quiet. The old reliable siren might be antiquated, but with Tyler’s Corner’s spotty cell service, it was a dependable system.

The empty streets began to swell with a slow and steady stream of volunteers. Men arrived at the fire station in pickup trucks with lights flashing. Moms, Dads, and grandparents arrived at the Congregational Church Hall to provide childcare. The closed sign at the Rise ‘N Dine was hung on the door. Josie led a team of helpers into the Church’s basement kitchen to start preparing meals. Even though the volunteer fire department was well equipped, Turner grabbed extra axes, shovels, and rakes from the store and threw them into his pickup before locking up and heading out to join the flood of neighbors.

Turner hadn’t been a volunteer firefighter for a few years. He was reluctant to admit it, but the grueling work had become too much for him in recent years. Nevertheless, he felt an urgent need to respond. He told himself it wasn’t habit or instinct, but something that ran deeper than that. He refused to turn his back on his community in need. To live here was to be tied to good fortunes as well as the struggles. Answering the call wasn’t just about fighting fire; it was about standing shoulder to shoulder with his neighbors and being part of the whole.

The firefighting crew had been on high alert for weeks, and it did not take long for them to assemble and head out. For hours, they fought the flames before aid from Unity and Moulton joined the battle. Eyes tearing and lungs burning from the acrid smoke, backs bending under the weight of their gear, exhausted from stress and the long shifts, the fighters rotated in and out of service for short breaks. A makeshift care facility was set up to treat fighters who had injured themselves from falls on the uneven terrain. Operating heavy equipment downed trees, and falling debris led to cuts and burns that needed immediate attention. Josie and her team pushed themselves to get “mama’s homecooking” to the worn crew, their families. and other volunteers. Neighbors showed up to clear away ash in the town and, when it was safe, debris near the fire zone.

A crew from Unity was using a tractor with a harrow to cut a firebreak between the train tracks and Monty's pasture to the east. Fighting side by side, Sullivan and Periera were following along with shovels to clear away grass, leaves, and twigs and to scrape the ground to expose bare soil wherever the tractor couldn’t maneuver. It was strenuous work under the still unrelenting sun.

Suddenly, the wind shifted slightly, and up ahead, the fire jumped the break and engulfed the tractor. The tractor driver leapt from his seat as Periera ran forward to drag him from the advancing flames. Sullivan was right behind him and helped to drag the man several feet from the tractor, but now the three men were in the middle of a circle of fire. They stumbled backwards as the flames devoured the tractor’s tires. The heat radiated outwards in conspicuous waves. The men, eyes wide with fear, realized they were trapped. The fire ring grew as dry vegetation fed it, and leaking fuel sent up thick plumes of dark smoke. The ground beneath their feet was growing hotter, and the air almost impossible to breathe.

Watching from across the pasture, Monty saw the oily plume, a grim smear against the horizon that threatened everything his family had built. He clenched his jaw with resolve. He didn’t hesitate. Faster than he had moved in decades, his breath a ragged gasp, and his legs pumping with far less power than in his youth, Monty heaved himself toward his barn. He grappled his way onto the seat of his fully restored 1953 Farmall M, and coaxed the engine to life with a growling roar. He slammed it into high gear, lurching forward, and raced across the pasture.

Pointing the tractor directly at the flimsy barbed wire fence, he began to sing over the noise of the engine a defiant “Battle Hymn of the Republic.” The fence splintered with a crack, and he headed directly into the blazing inferno. Monty squinted into the dense smoke, his eyes stinging, and he could just make out the three men huddled together, their eyes wide with terror. He stormed directly at them, still singing his fight song, his voice hoarse but unwavering. The tractor lurched to a halt just long enough for them to scramble on board. The men clung to the tractor’s frame, their faces streaked with soot and sweat, and Monty spun the Farmall around, crashing through the hungry flames again. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, his voice rising, “Glory, glory, hallelujah,” he continued to sing, determined to get them all to safety.

The fire raged for another four days before the crews wrestled it under control. In the afternoon of that final day, the rains came. Wet ash and mud coated the town, and steam rose from the scorched earth. The old oak at the crossroads was a charred hulk, the silence heavy where leaves once stirred. Folks lingered there, stunned and speechless, the loss cutting deeper than anyone expected. More than wood and leaves, it had been a marker of memory, of shade, and of shared history and continuity.

People drifted through the wreckage with vacant stares as if searching for something familiar in a landscape they no longer recognized. Their eyes strayed over blackened earth, collapsed roofs, and the husks of cars. In disbelief, they surveyed the ruined remains of what had once been home.

As the volunteers coiled their hoses and packed their trucks, the somber mood began to lighten, just a little. The fire had buckled the siding on the feed and grain and eaten through several pastures, barns, vehicles, and several storage sheds at the edge of town, but the row of houses and businesses along Main Street were untouched. The fire was out, but the heat of a hundred casseroles endured in memory. The town had damage, but it had been largely spared, and whispers of clean-ups and rebuilding could already be heard. The story of Monty G. riding in on his tractor, sing-shouting, “Glory, glory Hallelujah,” began to circulate and grow in outrageous detail with every retelling.

Old Monty, of course, hadn’t spared his lungs. He was recuperating at the County Hospital. Folks said he was still singing in the ambulance that brought him there. “If he’d just keep his mouth shut, he’d be a whole lot better off,” the EMT had muttered, but silence had never been Monty’s way. Sullivan and Pereira had taken turns keeping a vigil outside his room. They vowed to have that “damn Farmall” fixed up and fully restored by next year’s Fair. It wasn’t just about the Farmall; it was about proving that what burned could be rebuilt.

When things quieted down and the long road back to normal lay ahead, Turner drifted back to the Rise ‘N Dine. The ordinary smells of sizzling bacon and fresh coffee, the clatter of plates, and the familiar faces were a welcome comfort, evidence of the town’s undashed spirit. He sipped his ice tea and gazed through the window. He could see the rain-streaked drips cascading down the glass and thought about the creek, Monty laid up in a hospital bed, and the scorched oak. He thought about the way folks had surged forward, side by side, turning back disaster with shovels, rakes, and the stubborn belief that they could. Tyler’s Corner was still standing and stronger than ever. It was reborn, reinforced with pride forged in the fire of shared calamity.

Josie slid by and slapped her order pad against the counter. “Well, Joe, our world nearly burnt down, and here you are takin’ up a stool. The menu survived, honey, so, tuna melt again or you plannin’ to get wild today?”

Turner felt something loosen in his chest for the first time in weeks. Out beyond the diner, the air smelled of smoke and rain, the perfect mix of endings and beginnings.