Fireman's memory preserved

By JASON NARK

(Originally published in the Courier Post)

Down a weed-lined dirt road in Toms River, inside a tar-paper-covered barn, Thomas Gray Stewart III is scaling a ladder, smiling at his father, a friend and a sculptor.

Pictures of Stewart; his mother, Maryann; his fiancee, Danielle Ruggierio, and his son, Nicholas, are pinned to a wooden platform near a model of the Blessed Virgin Mother.

Meanwhile, his father, Thomas Stewart II, stares at the clay likeness of his son, holding his hand over his mouth with a puzzled look.

The smile on his son's face is not right.

"It was more of a smirk,' said Stewart, looking to Gloucester City firefighter Jerry Hubbs for agreement.

"Even in his coffin, I swear he had that smirk,' Stewart said with a deep laugh.

On July 3, 2002, Stewart scaled a fire engine ladder during a fireworks ceremony at Gloucester City High School to propose to Ruggierio. Hours later, in the humid, pre-dawn hours of Independence Day, he was among six killed when a burning city duplex collapsed.
Stewart, Mount Ephraim Fire Chief James Sylvester and Camden County Fire Marshal/Mount Ephraim Deputy Chief John West died while trying to save Alexandra Slack, 5, and her 3-year-old twin sisters, Claudia and Colletta Slack.

Making the mold

Two years later, Stewart is being reborn, thanks to the efforts of Hubbs, one "working class' sculptor in Toms River, a bevy of talented craftsmen, and hundreds of people who donated money for an $85,000 memorial in his honor.

At the Toms River studio of Brian Hanlon, a broken identification card sits on one of the ladder's rungs. Stewart is a rookie, a little thinner and without the grin.

Hanlon uses the card to manipulate Stewart's clay lips, and the sly smile familiar to family, friends and fellow firefighters emerges ever so slightly.

"It was always like he knew something that no one else knew. He was the cat that ate the bird,' his father said proudly.

Hubbs, a 13-year veteran of the department, spearheaded the quest to get the 9-foot statue completed by July 4 -- the two-year anniversary of the fire -- but Hanlon's frantic pace was tempered by the sluggish crawl of paperwork, fund raising and the foundry in Rock Tavern, N.Y., which refused to sacrifice quality for speed.

Earlier this summer, Hanlon -- a would-be musician, part-time comedian and working man's sculptor -- joked about the ulcers the deadline would bring, but the intensity in his blue eyes gave him away. The wiry and hyper Toms River native peered at the statue from nearly every angle.

The father of four spent long days in his chicken barn, breathing in a noxious mix of fumes to get the sculpture ready.

Hanlon said he wanted Stewart's memorial to be different from the nearly 100 other pieces he's done, including a 9/11 memorial in Pennsauken.

Stewart's memorial, he said, should invoke reflection for every firefighter who passes by it at the city's fire station on King Street.

"It's not going to be a piece you walk up to and look at,' he said. "It's going to be a piece you react to.'

During a visit to the studio, Stewart's father and Hubbs circle the mold, occasionally touching it. Hanlon and a colleague stuff newspaper in the nooks between the firefighter's thick fire pants and jacket in preparation for the application of the fiberglass mold.

"He would think this was way too much, but he would be happy that he's 6 feet tall right now,' said Hubbs, noting Stewart was about six inches shorter.

All of the gear on the mold -- including the pants, jacket, helmet and air tank -- belonged to Stewart and was destroyed in the creative process.

"I think that's nice,' said Hubbs. "A little part of him will be in this.'

Hubbs said the similarities he shared with Stewart -- a good-sized ego and a healthy dose of competitiveness -- meant they sometimes butted heads. But maturity and a mutual love of firefighting enabled the two to bond.

"I would say it really took us a few years to figure each other out,' said Hubbs. "We were really just starting to become good friends.'

The bronzing

After a few 18-hour days in mid-June, Hanlon finishes Stewart's mold and sends it to the foundry, where a wax mold of Stewart will be created and repeatedly dipped in a mixture of resin and sand before the bronzing.

Polich Art Works in Rock Tavern, N.Y., is a loud and raucous warehouse the size of a football field -- a contrast to Hanlon's bucolic barn. Sparks cascade from bronze sculptures, forklifts carry jagged metal, and 100,000-ton cranes hover four stories above the warehouse floor.

Overseeing it all is Dick Polich, a veritable Vulcan, forging weapons for the gods in his foundry beneath Mount Aetna. Polich however, has a more impressive resume than the Roman god of fire, and his creations are made to inspire, not destroy.

Polich, looking 20 years younger than 73, was raised in Chicago by Yugoslavian-born parents and attended Yale and Harvard before receiving a master's degree in metallurgy from The Massachusetts Institute of Technology.

"I grew up in era when working meant doing something with your hands,' said Polich, his biceps flexing as he grabbed the air.

After his tour of the nation's upper-echelon universities, Polich flew fighter jets in the Navy, and then began a 30-year career developing metals for airplanes and weapons systems in high-tech foundries.

The current warehouse, a former concrete duct-work plant, is the sixth building Polich has moved into to keep pace with business.

The delay

With less than a week until July 4, Hubbs makes the three-hour journey to Rock Tavern to try to persuade Polich to complete Stewart's memorial by the deadline.

"No one has told me to my face yet that it won't be done in time,' said Hubbs.

He hopes Polich's community of craftsmen will see him in his uniform and be inspired to place Stewart's memorial ahead of other pieces.

Like the one that hangs in Hanlon's barn, Hubbs brings a Gloucester City Fire Department patch for Polich but the show of camaraderie does little to sway him. Stewart's mold continues to sit upside down in the "shell room,' covered in a sandy resin and encased in a web of Rebar while men in white Tyvec suits dipped other molds in the mixture.

Still fragile, the new mold could be destroyed if they attempt to pour bronze that week, Polich said.

"There's a danger in rushing -- that's where things can get lost,' the soft-spoken Polich told Hubbs and Hanlon on the warehouse floor. "The process we that we use is the same as in the Renaissance -- it cannot be rushed.'

Frustration lingers in Hubbs's eyes for the rest of the day. He wonders how to cancel a major dedication hundreds were set to attend.

Hanlon admitted the time period was nearly impossible.

"I put on my Superman cape for this one and it wasn't enough,' said Hanlon, rubbing his chin. "When it is done though, it's going to be here for 1,000 years.'

Nearly complete

Communications between Hubbs, Hanlon and Polich finally center on Aug. 28 as the dedication. On Aug. 5, craftsmen at the foundry apply chemicals and torches to Stewart's fresh coat of bronze, changing the color from a yellowish-gold to a deep maroon. Later that day, Hubbs and Hanlon take the statue to Gloucester and work into the darkness to finish it.

All that's left is to affix it to a granite pedestal containing the remainder of the memorial -- two tall obelisks for West and Sylvester and three smaller stones for the Slack sisters.

"We were like two ninjas out there,' said Hanlon.

The statue sits there now, wrapped tightly with a tarp until its unveiling Saturday.
Hubbs said frustrations and emotions never clouded the main goal for getting the memorial done at all costs.

"It's been a healing experience with the family and me. I was able to help a fallen brother's family,' he said recently. "I don't know about the whole closure thing, but I know I just wanted to get it done.'

Hubbs, a father himself, said he doesn't want the memorial to represent tragedy or heroism. He hopes Stewart can invoke pride in his fellow firefighters, pride in the sad hearts of his parents and fiancee, but most important, pride in the eyes of Stewart's 3-year-old son.

"My vision, I mean what I really keep thinking about, is Nicholas riding his bike up there with his buddies when he's 10 or 12, and saying, "That's my dad.' '