Friday started a much needed long weekend.   My back has been on one of its silly pain ridden streaks again this week.  Friday topped it off with extreme pain in my ribs where they were broken in the ATV accident.  I had a couple spasms that almost brought tears.  I was glad when the day was over and I was able to stretch out on my bed.  That’s pretty much how I celebrated my Friday night.

I got up Saturday in much less pain.  I was bound and determined that I wasn’t going to sit in the house all day.  I headed to my usual Saturday haunt for lunch.  While I was there, I remembered that the funeral procession for Chief Phil Steele was going to be held at some point.  A quick glance at the newspaper confirmed the route and times.   I’d met Phil on more than one occassion and I know he was very well respected throughout the area as both as a member of the fire department and many EMS organizations.  That is what I would do… I would go stage myself along the route and record the procession.

I left Hogan’s Heroes about 12:05 PM.  I could easily get along the route in time for the 12:30 schedule.  I even had a spot in mind… The Knievel Cycle shop along Route 18.  It would provide an elevated position to shoot from with little obstruction.  I wasn’t the only one there.  Two other vehicles were already in position when I got there.  Big lot… No problem.  If you have never attended the funeral procession for a firefighter, medic or police office, I encourage you to do so.  It will give you insight into the type of special community these folks are a part of.

As I sat and waited for the procession to arrive, my thoughts wondered to a procession that I was part of.  Mark Pollock was a member of the local volunteer fire department at the same time I was.  He and his parents died when his own home caught fire.  I recall that day very very vividly.

Mark loved racing.  I hired him on as part of my security staff at Mercer Raceway Park.  We needed someone to direct cars where to park.  Once things settled down in the lots, he could watch the races.  The job was pretty thankless.  People often don’t follow direction so having the rest of the evening to wind down enjoying something you loved was a benefit.

Mark could always be counted on to show up.  He would even stop by my house just to make sure we were racing that day.  This particular Saturday morning I had gone to the track early.  Had I not, I would probably have heard the sirens and known what was going on as he lived just up the hill from me.  Mark hadn’t shown up that day.  He hadn’t called.  He didn’t answer my multiple attempts to call him.

My heart sunk when I found out later that afternoon that he had perrished along with his folks in the fire that morning.  I felt sick.  Here I was calling him, aggrevated that he hadn’t even called to say he wouldn’t be in.  I should have known something was wrong because it wasn’t like him to not let me know.

I wasn’t in the fire department at that time.  I hadn’t rejoined when I moved back to the area.  I felt that I needed to show how much Mark’s dedication meant to me… but how?  The thought clicked into my head immediately.  Mark loved racing.  He worked for the track.  I would ask the track owner if I could take the pace truck in the funeral procession.  She agreed immediately.  The truck was all nicely decaled with the track logo.  He would have appreciated the though I’m sure.

There is something that takes place at the funeral of an emergency services person that I didn’t know of at that time.  Its called “The Last Call”.  I carried a portable scanner for the race track so I could hear the different departments we worked with while at the track.  I took it with me in the pace truck that day so I had a ‘heads up’ on when the procession was moving, etc.  I never knew that choice would haunt me for the rest of my life.

The procession left town, went up the viaduct and out Wheatland Road, turning back up 718 to Route 18, stopping at the Shenango Township Fire Station (where Mark was a member at that time).  I was told there would be a special short ceramony there but hadn’t expected what I heard.

For those who don’t know, “The Last Call” is literally just that.  Over the county fire dispatch frequency,  Shenango’s pager tones were tripped and Mark was called to his final call.  Tears well up as I type this.  I cried as I watched Chief Phil’s procession go by yesterday, knowing that this was his “Last Call”.   Since that day in Mark’s procession, I have made it a point to attend processions when I can to honor that memory of Mark’s “Last Call”.

I went about the rest of my afternoon the way I originally had planned.  I constantly flashed back to that day so many years ago.  I finally just gave up and drove home.  I needed to work on the video I had taken of the procession.  I didn’t want to just dump it up to the Internet.  It meant something special to me.  It represented someone special to a community and its EMS responders.  It took all evening, but just before midnight I was satisfied.

I pray that Chief Phil’s family will find comfort in the support of their community.  They can move forward knowing that he will not be forgotten.

~Curtis Farster