No Capes

Do you know any heroes?

 I don't mean someone you admire because they inspire you to start a business or run a marathon. I'm talking about someone who risks their life to save another, or maybe it was your life that was saved. That's the quintessential hero, someone who charges in on a white horse and carries you to safety. 

Actually, the horse isn't really part of the job description, what with wear and tear on carpets and the rising cost of hay. Don't even get me started on live-animal transport regulations at border crossings. But how cool would that be, if a horse came with the job?  

Imagine you were rescued. Pulled from the edge of disaster, returned to your life and loved ones; maybe whole, maybe broken, but returned and offered the chance to heal and carry on. What would you say, if you could? What would you do, if you had the chance to thank your saviour? I don't know about you but I'd build libraries and parks, dedicate statues, name happy hour cocktails. I'd certainly write a book. Everyone would know that somewhere out there, a person was selfless enough to change my life by saving it. I would do everything in my power to deserve that gift and I would ensure that my hero knew the depth of my appreciation.

But would it change how you felt if you knew your hero was paid to save your life? If it was their job? 

There it is again. That word. Job. 

(The thumping and banging you hear is my soapbox being dragged to the center of the room.)

What if being a hero was actually a job? Not one you need a cape for, obviously, but a real paycheck-every-two-weeks, annual vacation, fill-out-the-paper-work-in-triplicate job? They are out there. Countless military members, firefighters, police officers and paramedics, most if not all of whom would certainly shrug off the idea that they are in any way heroic, receive a paycheck for what they do. Does that make them less heroic? 

And what if it someone decided that it did?

What if someone, somewhere decided that your hero was just doing their job. Now, it's one thing for your hero to tell you this. Modesty is quite beguiling, after all. It's actually nice to know that there are people out there, people of great skill and compassion, who roam around looking for opportunities to save lives, with no thought of recognition or compensation beyond the ability to use their highly specific skill set. I sleep better just thinking about it. 

It doesn't answer my question, though. What if it was decided that heroism is not just it's own reward but also it's only reward. That an act of selflessness should go unacknowledged and unawarded because the hero was on the payroll, and that to do otherwise could foster a culture of highly skilled risk-takers, who's actions are driven by the need for accolades and applause. Instead fostering a culture of highly-skilled risk-takers who's actions are driven by...what? The risk of PTSD, physical or career-ending injury, death or, possibly even  worse, a bland, nut-free cake at their retirement dinner because Brenda in accounting once had cashews and they made her tongue feel weird.

We ask much of these servants to the public. We require them to run towards the screaming. We train them to walk into the burning buildings. We insist they stand up for the ideals of our country, even on foreign soil, away from their families and in the midst of insanity and injustice. We demand that they do their duty. Do we have the right to demand they do it without commendation? Do we have the right to insist they have no outward means to show quiet pride for their good works?

I mean, I got a certificate and a scratch n' sniff sticker from my employer for doing a years worth of lunch-time yard supervision, a duty actually outlined in my actual contract, and I talked about it for days. 

Heroes do what they do because they have the will and skills to do the things that the rest of us can't or won't. They don't want books, or parks, or libraries, or the paparazzi trampling their azaleas. What they want is at the least a simple thank you from those they saved and at most an acknowledgment from their peers and superiors that they fulfilled their purpose, commendably, and with grace and humility. That they have, in fact, done their job. 

Heroism is a choice, and one that should not go unawarded. Ask any preschooler why they want to be a police officer or a soldier and they won't say it's because the pension is good. They will tell you it is because they want to be heroes, they need to be heroes. And we need them, too.  Presenting our heroes with a bauble to wear on their breast is not an encouragement of recklessness, it is recognition that they performed admirably, as expected, and prevailed when the worst was anticipated. 

I am quite extraordinarily lucky. I know lots of heroes, many by name, and it's my privilege to know them when they are at their least heroic. I see them mowing their lawns and playing with their children. I've hosted them at backyard campfires and let them teach me washer-toss. I've listened to them laugh, curse, sing and complain about the weather. They are my neighbours, my community, my friends and my family. Thank you, to each and every one.

A Little Taste of Home

as your teeth burst through the smooth skin 
of the summer's first ripe tomato,
still warm from sunshine and sweeter then holding hands,
spiced with the dust from your own earth;
as you lean out to let the seedy drops fall from your chin 
and star-burst splatter your freckled toes;
as light and heat slip down your throat, you close your eyes
to watch the memories of soft cotton tea towels snapping on the line,  
in the fluff-filled air of endless summer afternoons;
and you recall skinned knees 
and the freedom of treetop forts on windy days...
then I think it's easy to know what happiness tastes like.

Speaking In Tongues

My dogs speak to me.

No, to answer your question, I haven't finally been alone long enough for the crazy to start coming out in public. (Hang on a second, my kettle's ringing.) Obviously dogs can communicate, they just don't speak English. Doy.

Unless I do the voices.

Let me just tell you, Jesse may look like a lady but she swears like a drunken sailor after three days of shore leave, stuck in traffic, late to report for duty, and worried she forgot her prescription ointment back at the hotel. 

Especially when the cat steals the sunbeam.

Meeker has his own basket of troubles. He misses Husband but there's no clutter so he can't build a Meeker-Pile. His walk schedule is all off because I am not a chipper, early-rising robot who likes to wander the neighbourhood before sunrise. The worst is the daily betrayal of breakfast time, when I offer pats but not toast. This is obviously wearing on his little soul, as evidenced by the increasing number of times I have awakened in the night to find him sitting over me, staring, and quietly making a list of all the organs he can sell on the black market.

In truth, our furry family members are very good company, and, though I may anthropomorphize just a teensy bit, they are a reasonable reflection of my current emotional state. We all miss Husband as much as he misses us and he's all alone, which makes it that much harder. So we muddle through days of fetch and walks and try to be patient with each other even when I forget everything while I'm writing, or Jesse hogs the pillows, or Meeker rage-piddles on the basement floor. We've all been there. We have a strong bond that keeps us going, a commitment we all share that will see us through the hard times, no matter how long they may last. We made a promise to each other at the very start of this difficult time...

...as long as we draw breath, Fritti will never nap unpestered.


There is no psychiatrist in the world better than a dog licking your face. ~ Bernard Williams (paraphrased)

For Those About To Beep

Profound are the differences between Tofino...

 (pronounced "Elysium")

 and Cold Lake.

(pronounced "Where's the rest of it?") 

I will not state here that one place is better than the other and in so doing brand myself a hypocrite of the highest order. However I will admit to being a partial and prejudiced judge based solely on the fact that while Tofino's local radio had Mandatory Marley at 4:20 every day, here in Cold Lake we have Three Bells for ACDC.   

That's still not the crux of it. 

In Cold Lake, for four days straight now, the "professional" announcer has declared the hour: Three Bells for ACD2... and I just don't trust that he's being clever.

Get Up!

My second favourite way to wake up in the morning is slowly. I enjoy the sensation of drifting upwards through ribbons of waking dreams, gradually becoming present in a room filled with gentle light and the murmur of news from my clock radio. I like to spend a few moments laying perfectly still and listening to the noises of my sleepy critter family. The dogs woof and their paws pulse in a dreamy chase. The cat snores quietly at the foot of the bed. 

There is no end to the enjoyment I get out of this time in my day. This is when my mind is still and my heart beats slowly. The room and my nose are cool, the pillow is warm, and the sweet promise of coffee beckons. These few moments before action is married to thought feel like a gift and I lay in the wrappings, cherishing the calm before beginning the process of transforming into a productive adult.  

I understand that somewhere, out in the world, there is a percentage of the population who can leap from their bed three seconds before their alarm, completely alert and ready to make complex decisions about nuclear fission or what sweater to wear. I know this because, so help me, I married one. These people are important, they are from every walk of life and without them our society would come to a grinding halt. The remainder of Humanity would surely be late to work at the bus depot/power plant/surgical theatre/Starbucks. Cherish the early risers who are keen to start their day as soon as possible, they are the reason we know which rocks to bang together. 

Mind you, for the rest of us it is a wonder that we did not simply use those rocks on them and eat cold saber toothed beaver for brunch.  Which point neatly illustrates my favourite way to wake up, which is late.

Medium Tabby, Regular With a Hint of Ginger

Every morning I bring a coffee and a book to my favourite chair
And sit
Gently flipping through pages,
Enjoying the heat and weight of the porcelain mug on my knee as I read.
Each day my cat will raise, stretch,
And pad over to where I sit.
She will blink with sleepy sweetness, mew for permission,
Ignore my protests,
and leap,
Directly onto my mug of hot steamy coffee.
Every time.