PSE&G NEWSLETTER, November, 2001

On The Run

By STEVE SHARKEY

Just when the cynic within me questions if anyone or anything has really changed since September 11th, there is always someone or something there to remind me...

It was a beautiful Sunday morning, November 4th and on the Staten Island side of the Verrazano Narrows Bridge, approximately 30,000 people stood in line for the start of the NYC Marathon. Amidst thoughts of pre-race jitters, no one spoke as the words of Mayor Guiliani, the National Anthem, America the Beautiful, and God Bless America echoed in the temporary sound system.

Once the cannon went off, it was hard not to look to the left as a red, white and blue spray poured from a New York City fireboat centered in the Hudson River. In the distance was an altered skyline, familiar yet somewhat hard to comprehend. The twenty minutes or so it took to run the bridge allowed some time to reflect on all that has happened and been heard in the aftermath of the World Trade Center attack.

I had run the NYC Marathon once before and from what I remembered, Fourth Avenue in Brooklyn was more crowded this year as we passed from neighborhood to neighborhood. Volunteers at the waters stops reflected the diversity of New York City and police lined the dividers. On what seemed like every corner, there was an engine or ladder truck with members of the FDNY standing and cheering, acknowledging the calls of support from both the runners and the crowd.

About eight miles into the run, on the left hand side of the street, at Fourth and Atlantic Aves. one fire engine stood out from the rest for no particular reason -- Engine 226. Hanging on that engine was what looked to be a sheet with words to the effect of "we will never forget our fallen brothers." And in the middle of the sheet was the name -- Stan Smagala, Michelle Soto's cousin.

It struck me odd that in the midst of all that was going on -- I was trying to catch up with my brother and a friend, all the yelling, all the signs, all the noise, and surrounded by runners -- I would have Engine 226 drawn to my attention.

And so for serveral miles, there were thoughts of the deeply personal and individual tragedies from which most of us have been shielded. Perhaps it's the magnitude of several thousand deaths that makes it difficult for any of us to hear the single stories of horror, and of scars that will need so much attention to heal.

In all of it, I was left with silence -- running alone despite all that was going on around me -- as I thought about Stan. A memorial service program that Michelle brought to work allowed me to put a face with a name and, for whatever reason, it came to my attention that he, and all who do the same work as him, are not just "firefighters." In many ways, like us at PSE&G, our titles sometimes confuse our purpose. We say we are Service Professionals, Tellers, Meter Readers, Field Collectors, Supervisors, or Typists, to name a few. But in reality we are here to help others in service that transcends somewhat insignificant job descriptions. And I questioned, in that silence, how we approach our work everyday. I questioned how many of us have made life a little easier or better for those who cross our path, something Michelle Soto reminded us we should do in last week's quote.

Between miles 15 and 16, on the 59th St. Bridge, there were two runners with "FDNY" on the back of their shirts. The runner on the left had a small bib safety-pinned with "Engine 226" and the same names I had seen approximately an hour and fifteen minutes ago. In a five minute conversation, I heard about Stan Smagala. They spoke in generality -- perhaps not yet ready to face their own feelings. "He was a good man." "A hero." And then I heard what they could not say. "He went that morning thinking only that he could help. He never thought about the danger, only that people needed him." "He loved his job, his wife, and was excited about being a father."

Things went silent -- and we parted. The rest of the run was loud as I continued to think. I continued to notice the firefighters, the police, and every runner that I passed or passed me who had something hanging from the back of their shirt stating that they were running "In memory of... (a son, daughter, relative, friend, co-worker) 9/11/01.

In the minute I crossed the finish line, several hundred others did the same and I was one of the masses -- alone in whatever finishing meant to me. In a very indirect way I was like Stan - my personal story lost in the enormity of the entire event.

I found my brother who finished only two minutes ahead of me. I never caught him, but he was okay and I was proud of him -- as always. It was time to get home so I could go to work on Monday. But thoughts lingered.

Several days later, in a discussion with Mark Devoti from Corporate Security, he mentioned his 5-year-old son, John, had his annual check-up the day prior. Four shots -- four needles -- no tears. Because of his courage, he was treated to a hero's dinner at McDonald's. When his Mom and Dad said they were proud of him and the fact that he didn't cry, he simply replied, "I'm brave, like a fireman."

I didn't start running that beautiful November Sunday in someone's memory. But in the end, I did. And in some way a mother and unborn child on Long Island, should know that a fallen brother - husband, father, stranger -- made a difference and will not be forgotten.