The house was eerily calm and quiet Friday after Brandon left for his brother’s house in Louisville. He and Aaron and couple other guys have played Big Band music for the Saturday Derby Day Marathon there for years. Our new custom furniture was to be delivered Saturday, giving me an easy excuse for not going.

Since we met, we’ve only been apart on a few occasions. There was the week I went to Vegas on business in 2005 and last October when my sister and I spent two nights in Chicago. Still, I’ve never been alone in our house without him. The silence became stultifying; even the cats wandered about aimlessly, confused by the big open furniture-less room and Brandon’s absence. I could hear the whir of the air conditioner, the whine of sirens from the street below. I realized I was bored. Utterly and completely bored. Brandon had been gone half an hour.

So, I went shopping. And on Saturday, I did more shopping, buying scads of hanging flowers to plant in containers and baskets and large terra cotta pots. If Brandon was a bit shocked at the sudden nursery in our front yard upon his arrival home, he didn’t show it. Still, I quickly reassured him I bought it all out of my savings, and not with our joint credit card.

I completely ignored the book I was to read yesterday and planted instead. Reaching around my irises for the potting soil, I spied something folded inside the leafy fronds. It was a $100 bill.

Who says gardening doesn’t pay?

I made a donation yesterday for $50 to the Colerain Township Firefighters Fund in memory of slain firefighters Brian Schira and Robin Broxterman.

The amount pales in comparison to what they and their families have lost.

Every time I think of Broxterman and Schira, tears form. Two lives, filled with hope and promise and passion, extinguished in a mere moment. I didn’t know either of them, but I know oh, so many people like them.

When I first heard two firefighters had been killed, my thoughts immediately turned to Bill Ellison, a firefighter who was kind to me when I was a shy, insecure Fire Explorer. In 2001, he died after suffering third-degree burns on more than 50 percent of his body, leaving behind a wife and young children. Sometimes I will hear the wail of a fire engine and think of Bill, with his goofy grin and carefree attitude. Now, I will also think of Robin and Brian.

Just as with journalism, you don’t go into the fire or EMS service to become rich. The profession yields riches of a far different, more valuable kind. The firefighters and paramedics I know are all passionate about what it is they do and in helping people.

About a decade ago, I was certified as an EMT in hopes of becoming a volunteer and rode with a few agencies. I even started paramedic school, but couldn’t finish it because I had overextended myself. Somehow through the years, that dream took second seat to finishing my bachelor’s degree and now, my master’s. But even now, almost 10 years later, I can still remember the name and address of the first patient who died while en route to the hospital. I remember mentally willing her back to life, chanting “live” over and over again to the steady whine of the heart monitor. I can still recall cradling the head of the man shot execution-style in the back of his head, while I artificially breathed for him and the emergency room doctor who proclaimed him an “organ donor” despite our best efforts. These experiences and more indelibly changed me in ways I can never quite explain.

As soon as I finish my graduate degree, I will renew my EMT certification. I will sign on to a local department as a volunteer. This I will do in the memory of Robin Broxterman and Brian Schira. After all, carrying on their mission is the least I can do.