BY KRISTA RAMSEY
The Cincinnati Enquirer
Dear Jillian and Jordan,
You are so little now that none of this will make much sense to you. One day it will. One day you will begin putting together the pieces of Mike Adler's life, this daddy who was taken from you so young and so suddenly last week. When they're all in place, you will see a person who was decent, kind and happy.
Those simple traits add up to an extraordinary man.
Your daddy helped a lot of people, and most of them never knew his name. It's hard to see who's under that black helmet and wrapped in that tan firefighter's coat. It said "Adler" clear down at the bottom, but that was OK with your dad. He wasn't there so someone would see his name.
He was there to fight fires -- in his 13 years as a firefighter he fought hundreds of them in Madeira, Indian Hill, Loveland, Mariemont and other communities. He was there to steer the big trucks safely through traffic, to free people from terrible car crashes, to operate whatever it took -- from bobcats to bulldozers -- to shore up tumbling buildings.
He did it because someone needed it done and he loved to do it.
From the first
Your grandpa knew that from the time he drove up Miami Avenue in Madeira in the middle of a school day. He saw his 18-year-old son helping put out a fire. Your dad had stopped on the way back from dropping off equipment for his baseball team at the park.
Your mom knew it from her first date with your dad. He left her for three hours to go fight a fire. "Don't leave," he told her, and she never did.
Mike Adler was the kind of guy you wanted to stay around.
"If we arrived and the fire was coming out the windows, Mike was usually the first one in the door," his best friend, Loveland-Symmes fire chief Jim Hunter said. "It's a little like war. You have those certain guys who will advance to the front line and stay there. The hotter it gets, the harder they'll fight."
People called your daddy an "extraordinary" firefighter. But the first thing they mentioned was always you two little girls -- both under age 3 -- and your mom, Diane.
Everyday hero
You were always in his thoughts, never far from his side. He'd call home about 20 times a day just to check in, and never hung up without saying, "I love you." He'd have your mom bring you to the fire station for dinner. He brought home tiny construction hats that said "Adler & Co." just to let you know, if you wanted it, there would be a place for you in the family excavation business.
Not the least amazing thing about your dad, by the way, was that he did his firefighting and rescue work after a 50-hour week in excavation. Some people might call that heroic. It was. But your daddy was the most special kind of hero, an everyday one. You won't remember, but at the time your father died, we Americans were looking hard for some role models.
Maybe that's why we were all so taken by your dad. In him, we could see the boy who got up every two hours to feed an injured bird "because that's what the zoo said to do."
The talented athlete who sponsored softball teams -- "owned" them -- then played anywhere his teammates wanted him. The man who couldn't pass an emergency scene without stopping to see if he could help.
We lost your dad to an allergic reaction to a bee sting. It's strange language, isn't it -- to say we "lost" him. Maybe right now, he does feel lost to you. But in fact, you will spend the rest of your lives finding him.
You will find him every time you see someone putting his life on the line for a stranger.
You will feel his presence when you meet people who love what they do and do it with all their heart.
You will find Mike Adler in those places where he can never be lost -- when a teacher tells your mom what hard workers you are, how you have this instinct to look out for others.
Jillian and Jordan, one day you will understand that Mike Adler lives on forever. In you.
Krista Ramsey's column appears on Saturdays. Write her at the Enquirer, 312 Elm St. Cincinnati 45202.
RAMSEY ARCHIVE