Open House
Pepper Scott
I did not think I was ready to go up to the Canyon for the RFFD Open House this year.
For many years, Terry and I made that July pilgrimage together. The Open House was never just an event. It was a reunion, a celebration, a community picnic, a fire safety lesson, and a comedy show all rolled into one. Kids ran through water games. Volunteers talked about Firewise projects. The smell of barbecue drifted through the station. Everyone knew everyone, and if they did not, they would by the end of the day.
And then there was the raffle.
The last time I stood in that fire station was seven years ago, wearing a firefighter T-shirt and helping Terry set up what can only be described as his annual raffle ticket empire. He was the official raffle ticket salesman, although I am fairly certain he appointed himself to the position and nobody was brave enough to take it away from him.
He had a system.
The rolls of tickets had to be measured out precisely. He would mark little spots on the table so he could pull exactly the right length for five dollars, ten dollars, twenty dollars. Red tickets for smaller prizes. Blue tickets for the treasures. A hand-carved chair. A quilt. A necklace. A mysterious box that nobody remembered donating.
Then the performance began.
Terry was a radio man and a musician, which meant his voice could probably have been heard from downtown on a calm day. He would point to a wooden chair and announce with complete authority that it had been salvaged from the Titanic. A pearl necklace had belonged to Princess Diana.
Everyone knew he was making it up.
Everyone bought tickets anyway.
The line moved at the speed of a glacier because each customer received a story, three jokes, and occasionally life advice before reaching the cash box. People walked away laughing so hard they forgot whether they had bought blue tickets or red tickets. Somehow, every year, Terry raised more money for the firehouse than the year before.
MS never beat him at that.
The last time Terry sat at that table was seven years ago. Then came a broken leg, and the downhill turned steeper than any of us expected. Then Covid closed the doors on Open House altogether. Then, a little over a year ago, Terry passed away.
So no. I did not think I was ready to go back to the Canyon this July.
But a friend called, gentle and persistent the way good friends are, and somehow that was enough. I found my old firefighter T-shirt in the drawer, faded in all the right places, and put it on.
I do not have the words for what happened when I walked in.
People I had not seen in seven years opened their arms like no time had passed at all. Hugs came before hellos. Everyone was so gentle, so kind, so glad it almost took my breath away. That community did not just welcome me back. They made room for me, and for the shape of what I was missing, without ever once making it heavy.
I am still full of gratitude for that. I don't think a thank you note could hold all of it.
And for a moment, standing there among old friends and familiar faces, it felt as if Terry had come along too.
Then a ladybug landed on my hand.
Out of nowhere.
It strolled across my fingers, climbed onto my shirt, and stayed with me for quite a while before quietly disappearing.
Someone said, "That must be Terry."
Of course it was Terry.
He never missed the Open House once in years, not for weather, not even for MS. Why would death be the thing that finally kept him away. He was there in the ladybug, and he was there in every open arm that wrapped around me, and honestly, he was probably still trying to sell somebody a ticket.
"Welcome back," they said.
I am so glad I came.
I came home.
