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By JEFEERSON WEAVER
Ron Allen, was a little fellow, but he was one of the biggest men I’ve ever known.
Ron was a friend of mine. He died in the line of duty Friday morning. He was a fireman with Station 75 in Tar Heel. He was 36, and left behind his parents, a wife and a daughter.
Ron lived. He didn’t just exist, or breathe, or take up space. He lived. He never seemed to walk when he could run, and he always seemed to be doing three things at once – and doing them successfully.
He was a happy man whatever he was doing, but he was happiest helping other people. That’s why he joined the fire department at a young age. He served as a fireman from the time he could legally do so (and probably before).
It wasn’t just that his father was a member of both the rescue squad and the fire department. Ron, like most volunteer firefighters, wanted to help people.
Ron was known by a lot of names. Phillip and Alice called him son, their only one, and he was a son to fill any parental heart with pride.
He was called Daddy by Allie. He was called husband by Jennifer.He was called Lieutenant by his department records, or 5704, his call sign. Everybody called him Ron. He was called Brother by the members of Tar Heel Baptist Church. He was called a Christian by people who got to know him and talked about faith. Ron was called Mr. Allen by the prisoners he guarded at the White Lake Department of Corrections.
I first met Ron when he was running a prison crew that came out to work at Harmony Hall Plantation. Every one of the inmates towered over him.
Those prisoners didn’t just call him Mister because it was a rule. They called him Mr. Allen because they respected him.
I even jokingly called Ron a dragonslayer one time. It was a miserably hot day, and a chicken house had caught fire. The firefighters were knocking out hotspots in 105 degree heat while wearing air tanks and turnout gear. Ron was restless, knowing he had to re-hydrate before heading back into the fire.
A young fireman resting nearby was wearing a novelty t-shirt, one proclaiming membership in the International Brotherhood of Dragonslayers. On the shirt was the image of a fireman bravely attacking a fire-breathing dragon, like the mythical Saint Andrew, with a firehose.
Ron laughed, and said he hoped Station 75 would have a bigger pumper if he ever had to attack a dragon, but he was willing to try, if he had his department, and some mutual aid units.
I could always count on Ron, as could his fellow firefighters and the people who called on them for protection. If I couldn’t get to a wreck or a fire, he would send me photos and a breakdown of the information, sometimes an hour or so after it had happened.
He marked the photos contributed by Tar Heel Fire Department, although we often included his name or Jennifer’s instead.
I wish I could recall the exact incident where he said something I think is graven on every true firefighter’s heart.
The tragedies we shared – I by profession, he by choice – blur together after a while. We could have been standing beside the smoking remains of a family home near White Oak.
We might have been on King Street in Elizabethtown, when the whole downtown seemed to be burning.
It may have been at a wreck on an icy road one February night.
The conversation turned to why we did what we did – me a newspaperman, him a firefighter. We candidly admitted the adrenaline rush was part of it, and we both had a family tradition to carry on.
But Ron said something that, to me, was even more telling.
“If they page us out,” he said, referring to his department, “I have to go. Somebody has to go. It means somebody needs help, and I wouldn’t feel the same if I didn’t try. What if everybody decided to stay home, instead of going out to help?”
By the time many of you read this, Ron will have been given a proper hero’s funeral.
A fire truck will carry him from the church to the fire department to the cemetery. There will be flags and dress uniforms. If you have never been to a fireman’s funeral, it is moving, a display of honors fit for a hero.
He will be buried from the new fire station in which he took so much pride.
I saw Ron’s family Saturday, and held them and cried with them and prayed for their comfort.
I had no comfort Friday, after I got the call that Ron was dead.
I tried to find a Bible verse, but for once, not a single verse reached out to me. I tried to assuage it by working harder and faster, but that didn’t work either. I even cranked up the radio in the car, and pushed the accelerator halfway into the floor.
But Thin Lizzy, Ray Boltz, Handel, and some fairly talented country singer I’d never heard of had nothing to offer, and my 40-year-old nerves don’t handle high rates of speed like they did when I was 17 and indestructible.
I’m sure Ron didn’t think he was indestructible. He probably didn’t think about such things one way or the other. He concentrated on helping the victims of fires or car crashes, and worried about himself second.
Ron was secure in where he was going when he died, and while I know he wouldn’t want his family to hurt, he knew they would understand if he died in the saddle, a warrior’s death.
Ron Allen was my friend. He was also Phillip and Alice’s son, Jennifer’s husband, Allie’s daddy, and a comrade to his fellow firefighters.
I hope that for someone who has been considering doing something more for their community – like being a fireman, for instance – Ron will be called a good example.
Ron Allen was a little fellow, but they don’t make men any bigger. It gives me pride that among the many things he was called, I could call him friend.
Weaver is a staff writer at the News Reporter. He may be reached via telephone at 642-4104, ext. 227, or by e-mail at jeffweaver@newsreporter.biz.
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