Because I Can… the random thoughts of Marc Scott

Bruce Hornsby – The Show Goes On

I don’t have children, though, I’ve had limited experience with them.  Mostly, it’s been through the fire department.  At my old station, I used to love doing fire prevention events with the kids.  It reminded me of what I was like when I was a kid, always wanting to be on the fire truck or wearing the equipment.

During these various functions I learned that for kids, there are no answers, there are only questions.  “What’s this?” “It’s a fire hose.”  “What does it do?”  “It sprays the water.”  “Where does the water come from?”  “It comes from the fire truck.”  “How does it come from the fire truck?”

No matter the number of answers you would give, a child always seems to have an uncanny ability to find, yet another question!  They just don’t seem to be content with an answer.  They always need, and want, to know more.

I find myself at an interesting point in my life.  At 30, I have acheived both personal and professional dreams, and, sadly, I’ve seen them both fade away.  Often, I have to stop and remind myself that I am only 30 and it’s OK.  I sometimes forget that I started my career at 17.  Having not achieved everything by 30 doesn’t mean I’m a failure, as many people are only getting started at 30.  It comes as little consolation to me at times, but I remind myself of it nevertheless.

I haven’t blogged much this week, perhaps you’ve noticed.  I hadn’t hardly missed a day since I started this back in January, but this week I’ve definitely been slacking.  The reason for that is because I’ve been spending a lot of time looking for answers.

I don’t mean to sound like I’m at some major crossroads, though, I’m not ruling that out.  I would like to believe that I am still too young to be experiencing a mid-life crisis, though, I’d certainly see a sports car as a solution to at least one or two of my problems.  But I’ve definitely been taking some time to look for answers.

The harder I looked for answers this week, the more I kept remembering those fire prevention experiences.  I’d get an image in my mind of a child, standing tip-toed to cross the three foot mark.  He was standing in my bunker pants, my boots nearly as long as his legs.  The bright red suspenders are pulled up over his shoulders, though even they can’t keep the pants hiked up on his tiny little frame.  He throws my coat on and can’t even get his hands to come out the ends of the sleeves.  When he places my helmet on his head, it swallows him.  Somewhere, inside the yellow dome is the face of a child.  He attempts to walk, but with each step the weight of the gear nearly sends him toppling to the ground.  He pays it no mind.  He’s a firefighter, if only in make believe.  As he tries to wade around the sea of grass and snaking lines of fire hose, he asks questions.  With each answer comes a new question.  There is no end until time dictates that we pack the trucks and head for home.

This week one question has come into my head more than any other.  Are there answers?  That’s what I’ve been reflecting on, tossing it back and forth in my mind over and over.  Is life about answers, or is it just about a journey filled with questions?  Are we on a quest to a destination of absolute?  Or are we moving through a sea of questions, the complexity of which are like the waves.  Some bigger.  Some stronger.  Some smaller.  Some easier.

A child is seldom content to rest when an aswer has been offered.  They keep pressing, searching, wondering.  Could this be what Jesus was referring to when he spoke of child-like faith?  Perhaps the point is not to find or know the answers.  Maybe I’m supposed to just have faith in the journey, with each question being another dot on my map.

It was a cold day in January.  I don’t recall the year exactly, but it would have been early 90’s.  The air had a bite to it.  The breeze was sharp, the kind you try to protect yourself from by burying your face into the collar of your jacket.  The sun was shining bright, and reflected off the packed white snow in a way that made you have to squint to look around.  It really was a beautiful winter day.

I stood with my friends at the top of suicide hill.  It got it’s name, not from committed acts, but rather from it’s slope and the obstacles one would need to navigate around to get to the bottom on a toboggan.  I didn’t have the same kind of colourful suit as Evil Knievel, but I definitely had channeled his kamikaze nature.  From the top of that hill, in the midst of our meeting of the teenage minds, I was coming up with a plan!

Half way down the hill to the right, there was a drop off.  It was probably a good four to six feet.  Growing up from that drop off were a couple of trees.  They were still young trees, not very tall.  They looked postcard perfect with their blanket of untouched, freshly fallen snow.  They rose a couple of feet above the edge of the drop off.  On the other side of them, at the bottom of the drop off, was a smooth, clean run right to the frozen pond.

In my youth, I was the architect of a lot of masterful plans.  This one, unquestionably, was no different.  In my mind, I had dreamt of a way to build a jump just before the drop off.  That jump would have to be built up steep enough to send me over the tops of the trees, where I would then free fall to the bottom of the drop and continue all the way to the pond.  Do the math.  Four to six foot drop off, trees rising a couple of feet above the top edge, height required to clear the trees, and then land safely below where I would complete my run to the pond.  Common sense comes in many different forms.  Common sense to you may say, “you’re an idiot!”  Common sense to me said, “check the pond first.”

We got a concrete cinder block.  Actually, we got two.  With blocks in hand, we went to the edge of the pond.  Step one… make sure it’s frozen good and thick!  We took the first cinder block, and with a guy on each end, we raised it over our heads.  With every ounce of force we could muster, we took that block and threw it onto the glassy surface where it immediately smashed into tiny pieces.  Test one complete.  Test one successful!  Knowing the ice was thick, at least in that spot, we walked out onto the pond with the second block in tow.  Out a little further, we conducted a second test and got the same result.  The pond was frozen solid.  The ice was good and thick.  I didn’t have to worry about sliding across it and falling in!

Back to the hill, we began to construct the ramp.  The snow was crisp and just the right texture for packing.  You know the kind.  It crunches beneath your feet while you walk, but it almost has a squeak to it.  Exactly what you need for making snowman or snow jumps!  The jump was nearly four feet long, with a good steady slope upwards.  I was convinced it would give me the angle I needed to shoot over the tops of the trees.  For moment, albeit brief, I had discovered a use for all that geometry I’d learned in school.

When the design and build was complete, I was ready to go.  I made my way to the top of suicide hill with my GT Snowracer in tow.  A crowd had gathered below.  Some were cheering me on, others were there to see how bad I’d get hurt.  All were there for a show!  A show, I was confident, I would be able to provide!

I don’t remember much about the first attempt.  After I shook the stars from my head, I recall a lot of cheering and I know my GT Snowracer landed about thirty feet away from where I landed.  It landed on it’s skis.  I landed on my head.  Keep in mind, this is the early 1990’s when kids didn’t wear helmets to go tobogganing!  I wasn’t deterred by my failed attempt though.  I was sure I could land this jump.  So I went back to the top to try again.

I don’t remember much about the second attempt.  Wait a minute… am I the only one having a deja-vu experience?  Yes, the second attempt went pretty much the same as the first.  Another botched landing that found me on my head in a snow bank and my GT Snowracer off in the distance.  It took me a little longer to get back up to my feet after this one.  I was feeling a little dizzy and my head hurt a bit. Something about repeated landings on it from great heights and distances probably shouldn’t been a red flag for me.  But the crowd.  How could I ignore the crowd?  They were cheering, clapping, laughing.  They had come to see a show.  I was going to give it to them!

I went back to the top for a third, and what I told mysef was going to be a final attempt.  This time, I was better prepared.  OK, maybe I was just better motivated.  I really didn’t want to land on my head again!  They say that the third time is a charm, and this time, indeed it was.  I hit the jump, flew over the trees, maintained my balance, dropped to the surface below, and continued all the way down the hill and across the pond.  It was, or at least it seemed at the time, an epic jump!  I defied gravity, even if only for a few seconds.  I flew like Superman!

When I was done, we packed up, and went back to our camp routine.  Well, everybody else went back to their camp routine.  I went to the ER.  Head and neck X-rays were on the agenda for me.  I probably would’ve been OK if I had quit after the first one.  But that wouldn’t have made for a very good story.

Wipeout returned to ABC last night.  It is, in my opinion, one of the funniest shows on television.  There is just something about a guy getting hammered by a boxing glove in the biscuits, or somebody bouncing off the big red balls and face planting on the landing deck that is laugh out loud funny to me.  But it’s only funny when it’s somebody else feeling the pain of another epic wipeout!

Wipeout – ABC

Wipeout returns tonight on ABC… Watch it… you’ll laugh!!!

Kirk Franklin – September

Lately, the vast majority of the traffic on my blog has come as a result of people doing Google searches for Jon & Kate Plus 8.  After last night, that number spiked even higher.  With that in mind, I figured I’d share my two cents on last nights Season 5 premiere, since so many people that are finding this blog are looking for stuff on Jon and Kate.

The episode that aired last night was hard for me to watch.  Very hard.  The whole thing felt awkward and dramatic, and almost exploitative.  I realize Jon and Kate are getting paid to do this show, as a result of that, should expect a certain level of media attention.  Last night though, I couldn’t help but feel as though TLC was milking the personal trials of this family for all it was worth to them.  I suppose by watching, I gave them exactly what they hoped for.

I will say this, unless you have been through a divorce, and tried to put the pieces of your life back together after one, you have no clue the ramifications of such a decision.  People think it’s an easy clean break.  Like ripping off a band-aid.  It will hurt, but only for a second or two.  You couldn’t be more wrong!  The effects of divorce are deep, far reaching, and intense.  It is not something you just get over.  It’s not something you just move on from.  It is something that shakes you to the very core of your being.

I understand all to well now, why God is not a big fan of divorce.  I can’t help but think that it has less to do with the actual act of the divorce, and more to do with the hurt that it causes His people… those of us whom He loves so deeply.  Seeing us live through a divorce has to break His heart as He watches the way it breaks ours.

I don’t know what is next for Jon and Kate.  It wasn’t made very clear, although I certainly got the feeling like it was over.  For their sake, and the sake of their children, I pray it doesn’t end that way.  I tried everything I could think of to keep my marriage from ending.  If I had to do it all over again, I’d try even harder.  I can promise you this, I’ve learned a lot of lessons along the way, and you can be darn sure that divorce is something I will never go through again!

Watching Jon and Kate last night brought back too many memories and hurts.  A husband and wife that can’t talk to each other.  A husband and wife who seemingly tried to avoid each other.  A husband and wife who really wouldn’t even look at each other.  My heart broke all over again, because I remember what all of those things felt like.

I am not here to judge either of them.  It’s certainly none of my business what either of them may, or may not have done.  That is, as Jon stated last night, a personal, private, family matter.  I agree.  All I will say is this… people need to stop judging them.  People need to stop lining up to be the first to cast stones.  Focus some of your attention toward condemning Jon and Kate on your own life.  Are there areas where you can improve?  How about your own relationships?  What can you do today in your own relationships to help insure that you never get to a place where Jon and Kate find themselves?  Wouldn’t that seem like a more productive use of your time and energy?

I truly hope that Jon and Kate are able to get some counseling, and work through whatever the issues are that are infecting their marriage.  I hope that together, they will work to overcome their trials.  Divorce, no matter how easy or inviting an option as it may seem, honestly isn’t worth it!

Kenny Chesney – She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy

I am white.  Stark raving white.  I don’t mean Caucasian, though I am that as well.  I’m talking complexion.  I share the same colouring as that of the Abominable Snowman or a shiny new white porcelain toilet sitting on the display rack a Home Depot.  It’s pure.  In the right light, it’s blinding.  It the wrong light, basically, my body is about as pale as that of a corpse.

I’ve always been this way.  I think it might have something to do with my refusal to wear shorts or go to the beach and take my shirt off.  Long pants, short sleeves… farmers tan.  This is as good as it gets for me.  I am mostly OK with this.  I mean really, who the heck needs to see my hairy white chicken legs?  And nobody should be subjected to the abdomen that once enjoyed the glory of firmness and now mourns a fate that has left it with more rolls than a bakery.  It’s just not necessary to do that to people.

I went to the church camp I attended in my youth this weekend.  A night out of town.  No TV.  No internet.  No 3am dumpster fire calls.  Just rolling hills (that actually bear striking resemblance to my gut), big fields of green grass, wide open, clear, star filled skies, and air that is fresh and unused – like you’re the only thing that’s ever come into contact with it.  It’s a beautiful place to retreat to.

The deal is a trade.  I enjoy a little solitude in nature, and in return, I assist the camp with some maintenance.  Translation… I get a place to sleep for the night and they get somebody to mow those big fields of green grass.  Truth is, it’s an excuse for me to drive a tractor.  As a child I would beg grandpa to let me drive the tractor.  I spent countless hours on his farm pleading with him.  One time he let me do it.  I cut a turn to short and took out the corner overhang of a roof on one of the sheds.  It’s OK for me to drive a tractor at the camp now.  In the mostly wide open spaces, there is little for me to hit and damage.  All I have to do is keep the tractor out of the pond and I’m good.

Saturday afternoon I was at the camp alone.  50 acres of God’s handy-work all to myself.  I jumped on the old blue Ford, which actually looks similar to the one I drove on my grandpa’s farm, and away I went.  Cutting the grass.  Out there in the sunshine, in my 50 acres of seclusion I got this idea in my head.  I thought to myself, if you were ever going to try and tan your pasty white self, what better time and place to do it than right here, right now!

When you’re surrounded by trees and hills, it’s like you’re on an island, even though your not.  I was sheltered from the passing highway, and I knew the airplanes overhead were out of viewing distance.  I believed I could take my shirt off and do no harm.  When the sun bounces off my whiteness, somebody could catch those reflections and, broken by my shadow as I moved, they could mistake it for some kind of morse code signal or something.  However, since I was safe inside the confines of nature, I decided to do it.  I took my shirt off!

I got back from the camp Sunday afternoon.  I don’t think I was home for more than half an hour when the pager went off.  Grass fire.  I got up off the couch and made my way to the hall. I jumped into my boots and bunker pants and pulled them up, suspenders looped over my shoulders.  Before I got my bunker coat on though, a brother firefighter commented on my new complexion.  Standing next to the bright red pumper, you would have thought I was a part of it had it not been for the brown of my hair and the white of my teeth.

I raised my arms very slowly to put my coat on.  I winced a little from the pain that was beginning to setting in.  Then, as if I had done it to myself entirely on purpose, I smiled and said, “I’m just trying to blend in.”

It’s not normal what we do.  Firefighting I mean.  Well, it’s not normal to most.  It’s normal to me.  Maybe not at first, but after a while it became normal, or, at least as normal as such a thing can be.  You train.  You experience.  You do.  Eventually, you don’t really think about certain parts of the job.  It’s easier not to think about them.  Your training becomes as natural as tying your shoelaces.  You don’t need to think about it.  You just do it.

When people find out I’m a firefighter that’s usually what they want to talk about.  They expect that I will tell them brave and heroic tales of all the lives I’ve saved, all the dangers I’ve survived, all the glory I bask in daily.  I wish I could tell stories like that.  It sure would make what I do easier some days.  I don’t have very many tales like those though.  Mostly, I just have stories of tragedy, pain and loss.

When I was a kid I wanted to be a firefighter because all little boys want to be firefighters.  Having my dad on the fire department made it seem only more inevitable that I would join.  I remember going to the fire hall with dad.  Riding in the trucks whenever I could was always a highlight.  I used to put on old bunker gear that he had at the house and run around it.  When you’re a kid, that is all there is to it really.  It’s about cool gear and big red fire trucks with flashing lights and sirens.

They don’t really tell you too much about what firefighting can do to you when you first join.  I mean, they asked me questions like “How will you react to blood?”, “Would you be able to go into a burning building?”, “Can you handle what you might see at a car wreck?”  I answered the questions as honestly as I could.  “I don’t know.”  Truth was, I didn’t.  Dad had been a firefighter my whole life.  So that gave me insight into things I’d see and do too.  But even that can only prepare you to a certain extent.

Something else they don’t tell you is that, contrary to popular belief, you don’t very often save people.  In 10 years, I don’t know that I’ve ever saved anybody.  I had no idea that on the majority of the calls I’d be fighting a battle that was lost before I even made it through the door.  There is no worse a feeling, that I can imagine anyway, than walking into a situation where people are looking to you to help, and you know that you’re too late.  Do that enough, and no matter how tough you are, it will wear on you.

I’ve watched a police officer tell parents their son is dead while I was still doing CPR on him in the distance.  As I counted off chest compressions, knowing my efforts were in vain, I did not feel heroic.  I’ve held a charged attack line on a house burning out of control, well aware that I can’t stop the fire fast enough.  The family members watched their memories go up in a ball of fire.  While the flames licked out the window at my helmet, I did not feel brave.  I’ve held the jaws of life in my hands, using them to cut out a someone whom life had left.  I couldn’t save that one.

Firefighters don’t talk much about the dark side of the job.  Nobody would really want to hear it anyway.  I’m sure it’s a defense mechanism, keeping the stories amongst ourselves.  I’m not sure who we are trying to protect more.  Is it ourselves, from becoming vulnerable, out of fear that we’ll lose the tough layer that permits us to do the job day in and day out?  Or is it our family and friends we are trying to protect, from the pain and suffering that we have become all to familiar with?

On my journey as a firefighter, I have plotted points on a map.  I cannot tell you the house number.  I may not even be able to tell you the street name.  As I drive past certain places, I remember.  Sights, smells, sounds.  Each mark on the map inside my head comes with memories I’d prefer to forget, but can’t.  There is the barn where the electrocution took place.  There is the house where I almost got caught in my first flashover.  There is the corner where the woman was ejected from her vehicle and, almost as if controlled by the flick of a switch, her life stopped.  There is the field where the Air Ambulance landed the first time I ever loaded somebody into it.  There is the garage that was the first structure fire I ever entered, and after seeing what was inside when the fire was out, I am thankful I exited with my life!

I don’t regret what I do.  Not for a minute.  I’m 10 years in, and if I can stretch it out another 30, I’d be grateful for every moment.  And not all the stories are bad.  In fact, as I was writing this very blog I got called away to a fire.  A couple, enjoying a quiet evening on the banks of the river.  Lines in the water, hoping to catch some fish, they had started a small little campfire to cook some hot dogs on.  A passerby saw it, and called 911.  Those are the funny stories.  Those are the stories that bring, if only for a moment, the balance back inside my head between the good and bad.  When the dark memories creep into my dreams, the funny stories are the ones I recall to try and push them back.  Those are the stories I tell people about when they ask what it’s like to be a firefighter.