Lola, 2004-2009, beloved friend

Lola, our five year old golden retriever, died yesterday. She was a chubby little thing and we took a walk in the too-hot midday sun. While it was a walk we had taken many times before, this time she could not catch her breath and we were not near enough to cooling water. I carried her, tried to revive her, but I was unable to help. She tried, she died. Hopefully, I will one day be able to stop second guessing myself because I loved Lola . She loved everybody. Her physical absence is today excruciating.

I wrote an article for the emailed version of “The First Morning” in October of 2006.  I reprint it today because I am unable right now to write what I will write later about Lola.

Lola is our three year old yellow Lab. She is sweet in every sense of that word which humans overuse when they’re talking about their pets. She will fetch, over and over, any ball that fits into her mouth, until she is exhausted from running. At almost 80 pounds, she still stands by the chair I’m sitting in waiting for me to pat my lap as a signal to her to “crawl on up here.”

Last night, I was outside, it was about 10:00. I was reading and Lola was sitting beside me, her head resting on my knee. As happens once in a while, in a field across the highway, about ¾ of a mile from our backyard, a pack of coyotes began howling and barking. Now that’s always a remarkable sound, which usually goes on for several minutes. Perhaps a hunt has been consummated, maybe females are being called, or some danger is near. Whatever the cause, it is a sound of wildness that calls to my imagination.

And this night, Lola heard that call, too. She left my side when it began and walked to the middle of the yard and sat down, her attention fully focused in the direction of the coyotes’ howls and barks. She was alert, but relaxed- not tense and on edge the way a noisy truck on “her” street causes her to be. She was so relaxed, as the coyote chorus continued, that she laid down sphinx-like, very still and totally concentrating on the not-so-faraway sounds.

What was she hearing? This was a sound from far beyond the normal barking she hears when we take our dogs on walks and dachshunds, pit bulls, or other retrievers bark at our trespassing. Nor did Lola react to the sounds of these coyotes like she does when dogs behind fences bark at us on our walks. Fence-barkers are reacted to by Lola with much false bravado and silly gnashing of teeth. Lola is pretty much a sissy, though, and runs the other way if she perceives in any way that the fence protecting her has a weak link somewhere.

As I watched Lola listening to the coyotes, I believe I was watching her responding to the eons of DNA wound through every one of her bodily cells. Retrievers, as a breed of dog, have only been around for several hundred years. But they, like every Chihuahua, Great Dane, Pit Bull, and new little Foo-Foo of the month, have ancient common ancestors among the wolves of Northern Europe and Asia, and more recent ancestral cousins among the dingoes of Australia and the coyotes of North America. I think; no, I know, that Lola was hearing a real call of the wild. It was a call to the wild in her that she has, through breeding and spoiling, no idea how to respond to. But she can hear it. She can feel it.

When the barking and howling stopped, Lola sat back up. She looked back at me, as her ‘real world’ was coming back into focus. I went over and hugged and ‘talked dog’ to her. It just felt to me- maybe I’m making all this up, but I don’t think so- it felt to me like there was a longing in Lola that could never, would never, be able to be expressed. The life of the pack, as her 1000X great-grandmothers knew that pack life, will never be part of Lola’s experience. But I could see that some deep and real genetic chord in her had been sounded. And she had enjoyed it.

I often wonder how many of those ancient and genetically ripe moments catch our own human attentions. Most people respond to the seashore in ways which cause them to describe it as “beautiful” or “awesome.” But those words, they also know, even as they are saying them, do little to describe what the ocean is really making them feel. That feeling is the real response to the ancient, genetically sensitive, call which the ocean makes on most people.

Most, but not all. While significant and numerous communities of humans lived over hundreds of generations by ocean shores, their DNA codes being sculpted by the foods, winds, and climates there, there were other communities with ancient histories living inland. Some people today are affected by mountains or deep forests in the same way as others are affected by the oceans. Some communities, many of them around the world, never left the base of the mountains where life-giving streams full of fish and clams were present. Others hunted and gathered in the forests and the edges of forests. Their present day descendents might feel their calls to the wild in the scent of pine, the taste of wild onions, or, in ways very different from the way Lola heard them, the howls of wolves, dingoes, or coyotes. (“Run!”)

Something which all humans in all places seem to share is a fascination with fire. In a shared setting especially, where the fire is purposefully built and controlled, the fire-fascination of people is that same kind of fascination which comes from beyond words, beyond the need for language. Fire, shared and communal, is always quieting, always a cause for reflection and wonder. It is settling. That kind of shared, life-enhancing fire is something which the majority of persons in everyone’s family trees depended on, gathered around, slept near, and were made warm by. Our genetic, human DNA was shaped by that warmth; it is not serendipity or even mere coincidence that we are, as humans, attracted to it. It is inevitable. We can’t stay away from it.

On beyond the campfires, mountain streams, forest glens, ocean waves, and calls of the coyote, there is another even more ancient and powerful call. All humans have that call in common, too. The Apostle Paul said that even the trees and rocks hear it. I’ll write about that call later in the week.

 

Thoughts on the 60th Anniversary of D-Day

Thoughts on the 60th Anniversary of D-Day
(to Ike, written 2004))

I wish they had talked more, And I wish we’d have asked more.
They were our fathers, uncles, teachers, and neighbors,
And that one guy who sat at the park by himself.
They were men, then, and we couldn’t imagine they had been soldiers.

We played in the dirt with our plastic soldiers
and mimicked machine guns in the woods:
Eh-eh-eh-eh-eh-eh…
then spun to the ground in death throes we knew nothing of.
They didn’t tell us how to play, or how men really died…screaming sometimes.
They kept those thoughts to themselves,
sitting on them in a silence which their children did not need to hear about,
because nothing could be that terrible.
Ever again.

Maybe it was a matter of time:
A time when tears did not signal doors opening to what really mattered;
A time when it was best to be busy with the yard, the car, the other thousand tasks which mattered to them but have never mattered to me.
A time when sitting next to others at Rotary or Kiwanis who shared those memories was enough.
Even when we wanted them, so we could compare my dad and your dad, to talk,
they would answer questions, without elaboration, a sentence or two,
then back to the yard or car.

Al hid in a haystack in France for months. Then left for the garage.
Fred’s brother died in a tree, shot while he parachuted. But he’s gotta change the oil today.
Dick was in a POW camp for a year. He ate mice. That damn yard’s getting out of hand.
Dad saw Japanese skulls bobbing in the water but didn’t know what to do about them. And he had to go down to the cellar.

We didn’t know how to ask; and they didn’t know how to tell us, anyway.
So we all got older together during quiet baseball games in the back yard.

When we came back, they’d gotten very old. Dad did, too.
Sometimes he would just sit. I remember him the summer before he died, sitting by the back porch crushing sweat bees with the handle of a hoe.
Maybe I should have asked him then.

The guy in the park shot himself years before he’d gotten old.
And now the rest, all of them that I knew while they worked on their cars or in their yards, or who sat at Rotary meetings each week, and who needed stuff from the cellar, the barn, town… they’ve joined that first one.

Maybe they had all died back then and gone to hell on the shores of France, or on some jungle island, or behind the barbed wire of a camp somewhere in Germany.
Maybe these new lives had so little to do with where they’d been that the silence had to be.
Maybe they simply could not go back there while their kids were playing war in the woods,
because they might have had to die all over again.

Requiescat in pace.
We just didn’t know. .

by David Weber, 2004

 

Real heroes. Tiananmen Square, June 4, 1989

 

There are heroes- real ones, the kind that risk their lives without a thought toward who’s watching. They don’t have to do what they do. Nobody would fault them for taking the easier way. But they do what they do because they must- if not for themselves, then for those who will follow.
Today is the 20th anniversary of the invasion of Tiananmen Square in Beijing by the Chinese government. The invasion- with tanks and other armored personnel- effectively ended a several week student-led protest which had been taking place in the square. On the first day of the invasion, two heroes emerged and they are both here, in the same picture. See them?

There is, first, the young man who took a position in front of the first of four tanks. He didn’t have to do that. He could have watched, and hollered, and thrown debris from  the sidelines. He would not have risked his life doing that, and there’s no one who would have blamed him for not staying still and protesting that way. But he didn’t stay still. He risked being squashed. He is a hero.

But there is another hero in the picture, too. The driver of the tank acted extraordinarily that day, too. He could have done the job he was expected to do and driven over the protesting student. The army was there to break up the student protest by killing some of the students if necessary, and that is what happened over the next several days. Many times.

No one  would have questioned the tank driver for squashing the student. He would have been doing his job. And the best way to stay out of trouble in any military operation is to do exactly as your superiors have ordered you to do. But the tank operator was a hero that day. He drove around the student. He broke ranks and disobeyed. The student stayed alive.

It is unknown what happened to the soldier in the tank for his act of disobedience. But he and the student birthed a whole new wave of hope in the world that day. It takes a hero to stand up to oppression. And it also, more frequently than we might think, takes a hero to back down.  Their actions, together,  set off a wave of hope which continues to inspire even today, 20 years later. You can feel it right now, yes?

Pass it on. In honor of a student and a tank operator, pass it on.

 

To Kill An American..

Just watch. Now.

And then try not to watch again..

 

Abortion. It’s the thoughts that count..

From the Psychology Today blogs, Christopher Ryan, Ph.D., psychologist, June 1, 2009:

“If human life is so sacred, why not protest avoidable poverty, tens of thousands of unnecessary infant deaths due to lack of water purification that costs pennies? Why not work to support anti-malaria measures that would save millions of sacred human lives? Why not work to end war or to protect children from environmental contaminants that kill thousands every year? Why not oppose capital punishment that kills innocents or long prison sentences for victimless crimes?

“Those who claim they oppose abortion in defense of the sacredness of human life (and don’t devote energy and passion to any of these other causes) are speaking non-sense.”

Indeed. There is something about life on “that side of the womb” which makes it easy to talk about for those on both sides of the argument. It is easy to love- in theory- someone else’s baby- a baby you won’t have to feed, pick up, clean up after, spend money on, go to the school of, or drive to pre-school, kindergarten,  band practice, choir practice, Sunday school, or to the baby sitter when there is no babysitter and no money to pay one anyway and the car won’t start and food stamps have run out and if I miss one more class I fail this course and that’s the end of this semester.

For those who sit in support of the mother’s right to end the life of the fetus/baby/child/human growing inside of her, it is also pretty easy to ignore (because you’ll never have to see, and you know it) the eyes that will see, the lips that will smile, the hair which will curl amazingly, and the first chubby steps across the living room floor.

Look, can we agree- for God’s sake of course we can!- that abortion is something we wish would go away because only married twenty and thirty somethings with decent incomes and good family support systems have babies, and then no more than two? NOBODY WANTS ABORTIONS to have to be. NOBODY! We’d all like there to be some other way. Trouble is, that “other way” will happen right about the time that Jews and Muslims are turning their swords into plowshares and just a few months after Christians begin genuinely loving their neighbors and blessing those who curse them.   

Here’s a heads-up: it ain’t gonna happen. Not the way either side would like it to happen. Abortions are going to keep happening, just like they happened before 1972. Instead of happening in clinics, though, they will happen in motels and bedrooms, with butter knives, slippery elm (google it), sponges, and lemonade douches. Women- lots of them, will die. And no one, no matter how the “uterine growth” is depersonalized, no one will ever be able to stop most aborted mothers from marking birthdays, first days of school, and the pretend births of pretend grandchildren. (”She’d be 16 this October.”)

Given the fact that abortions are not going to stop happening, they must remain available and safe. That should be a given. Those opposed to abortions should have all the opportunities they can muster to win the hearts and minds of the potentially aborting mothers, including bribing, contracting to help them raise their children, provide housing, and/or some semblance of life enhancements- i.e., dance lessons, piano lessons, day care, or college.

And I, for one, hope you are able to dissuade many, many women from making the decision to abort through your generosity and graciousness. Being a real hands-on part of the village it takes to raise a child will be a good experience for you.  You could, once your own children leave home, maybe even open up those newly vacant bedrooms for pregnant mothers, then allow them to live with you while their children (now your children, too) are growing up!

The children are worth it, aren’t they?

This is the way Jesus would do it, isn’t it?

Every child should enjoy the life your child enjoyed, yes?

Yes?

Hello?

Is anyone listening? Hello?

 

The Rapture- if you’re reading this, you missed it..!

Whoops !

It really is easier to read a novel- or a series of novels – about the Rapture, than it is to read a critical history of Rapture theology. Just as it is easier to “believe” in Creationism than it is to study and understand Evolution. Just as it is easier to maintain a fatalistic view of every single thing that happens (”God did it!”) than it is to face the random nature of many (most?) human and physical events, or to accept an iota of personal responsibility when things go wrong. 

Faith has become a short cut around thinking. The words “I believe” have come to mean that whatever pronouncement follows those words is off-limits in terms of criticism. (Although you are allowed, encouraged even, to verbally punctuate such statements with a hearty “Amen!”)

But is being faithful, toward anything, a legitimate excuse for not thinking? Is thinking about faith a forbidden activity? Personally, I don’t think so. I don’t like dead ends in thought, where questions are no longer welcomed, because then the only thing left to do is to build a fort and be defensive about that arrived-at place of thinking.  And that’s also where Inquisitions and Jihads are conceived.

The theology of the rapture is relatively recent, beginning in the early 19th Century. It was an odd interpretation of scripture which found wide acceptance in the reactionary intellectual atmosphere of the time. Times were, in 19th century Great Britain (where the rapture story began), a’changing. Pastoral countrysides were seeing, with greater and greater frequency, the smokestacks of nearby cities rising in ugly industrial salute to the Coal and Iron being burned and formed in a revolution of manufacturing. Urban areas were growing, along with the attendant urban problems of bad housing, crime, and alcoholism. The rich grew richer as the poor grew poorer. As Charles Dickens wrote of what was happening, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” Some people were feeling left out, and powerless, and in need of a “way out.”

And the Rapture is the ultimate Way Out! Every year for the past two centuries someone, somewhere has claimed that this is the year:  This is the year that the Lord returns for his own!  It’s an appealing hope for many people: it costs nothing, it could happen any moment, and it makes those who know they’re ‘going’ better than those who don’t know they’re not going!

The popularity of the Rapture grows wherever people feel out of control. It gives people who believe they will not be left behind, a sense of power- perhaps even, a sense of superiority, over those who will not make the cut. As the doctrine’s popularity has grown, it has become more complex. Schools of thinking have grown about when the rapture will occur in relation to perceived timetables they are able to find in the books of Daniel and Revelation.  On-line resources are available for wills to be read and messages to be sent to relatives and friends who are left here after the rapture to face the horrors of Armageddon, or not.

When Jesus said, on the cross, “It is finished,” little did he know that 1800 years later the rest of the story would be uncovered. Nor did he know it would all be over in 1992, or not.

 

Battles

I dreamt, after wakening, that there really are prophets who can hear the One Sound- the music of Creation as it battles Death.

It is the Sound of the Ocean and of Blood, the rhythm of the Moon and the response of our Pulse in a saltwater symphony. It is the voice, not of the god of our imagined fears, but of the triumphal entry of All That Is into the squalor of Jerusalem.

It is the music that proclaims, “it is finished,” even as crabs scurry across the sand and even as ocean waves spread New Life in metered rhythms of New Beginnings.

There are prophets who hear that terrible Harmony even as they are crushed by its Beauty.They laugh and they cry at once for the horror behind them and the hope in which they are wetly standing.

And they must tell others- those few others who can hear the music wherever they, too, are wetly standing. So that they know their feet are not wet in vain, and so they know their always breaking hearts are vital to the continuing Music.

 

What’s good for General Motors, is good for the U.S.A.

That’s how America used to work. And it’s exactly how America must never work again. 

Automobiles, television, and a grid of roads going everywhere. That was the holy trinity of both 20th century economics and modern civil religion. That was the three-headed god which we genuflected to with our financing plans, sacrificed to through an international oil industry, and the imagio dei into which we allowed ourselves to be born again. For some persons this morning, GM’s bankruptcy filing is like hearing that Jesus’ bones have been unearthed in Jerusalem. The foundations of their lives, as they knew them, are crumbling.

Nothing is permanent; that’s the primary lesson from this which must be embraced again and again. Just because a few generations of Americans grew up with Chevys, aspired to Cadillacs, lusted for awhile over GTOs, then settled for their father’s Oldsmobile, didn’t mean- it turns out- that GM was the end all and be all of the American GNP. And because GM was so familiar to all of us, we all have the ability (we think) to figure out what went wrong.

Why did Americans by the millions go sneaking off to trysts with Toyota, Datsun, and Honda? The answers we have are all- in part- valid ones. Because GM (and the other American automakers) held such sway in America, and because we were all its willing victims and supplicants for almost a hundred years, we all have the right to have answers, too. We are all kind-of experts on the auto industry. 

So, here’s what I think: Hummers didn’t kill GM, but they were the final tumor. Like the smoker who won’t stop smoking and then pours the family fortune into a final two years of chemo-drenched half-life, GMs arrogance toward the American consumer finally caught up with it. They claimed car and truck buyers wanted big muscle cars. And when a company controls huge advertising dollars, it can make its misbegotten notions seem true, for awhile. Scare enough men into believing their virility is dependent on massive horsepower, and corporate wishful thinking will prevail, for awhile. Kill off the 1st American electric car- the EV1- because of narrower profit margins, while forcibly inserting Hummers onto the roads by making them the internal combustive equivalent of Viagra, and sales projections will maintain the illusion of an erection, for awhile.

And the kind of dull, but harmonic and dependable music of Toyota, Nissan (now), and Honda played on. And plays on, still.

I still want a Cadillac SUV. I do. That’s a desire I have learned; it is not a desire I was born with. The idea that such a vehicle will enhance my life is a false one, I know that- I really, really do. But GM had psychologists, behaviorists, and -who knows?- maybe even spiritual advisors all figuring out ways to get their vehicular seeds into the soil of my very American, very consumer-oriented mind and soul. And they were successful.

That’s the part of American business which must be re-examined. Have we been brainwashed, or taught? Are we cajoled, or informed? Are we being pushed, or led? Advertising is much, much more than something which interrupts reruns of ‘Seinfeld.’ It has redefined who we, as humans, understand ourselves to be and, because that image in recent decades has been a false one, it was inevitable that we would run into a brick wall.

GM’s bankruptcy is one of those brick walls. There have been others, of course. And there must be more.

 

Speaking of heroes, how about that pizza delivery guy?..

As something of a follow-up to the comments below, I note what may be the most..interesting..designation of “hero” to have been made- so far- this year. I don’t remember the particulars- where, who, and specifically when- nor will I spend even 30 seconds retrieving that info; it is irrelevant! If you had the TV on during the last few days, you’ve probably heard the story anyway and I do you no service by re-heaping the details onto your already creaking-with-overload memory.

A pizza was delivered to a home way outside of town, in some state, near some medium-sized town. While inside, the deliveryman saw a woman with her hands tied who was mouthing the words “Call 911.” Now, I’m not going to quibble about the likelihood of understanding someone’s mimed plea to call 911; try it, you’ll see the words are not easily seen. And, it would seem to me that the tied up hands and wrists would probably be a sign, adequate unto itself, that something was amiss.

All of this non-verbal information was being passed, by the way, while the client had his back turned to the deliveryman and his victim, WHILE HE WAS SIGNING THE CREDIT CARD SLIP for the pizza! One must ask, if you’re going to be a kidnapper, and if you’re going to feed the victim, wouldn’t it be a good idea to meet the delivery guy outside the house, with cash? That’s not relevant, really, except that it goes to show why the status of “hero” is deserved even less than it may have been deemed to be deserved at first glance. Stick around, it gets even less deserving.

The pizza guy left the house, got in his car, and called 911. That’s no big deal; if you’ve done it, you know what I mean. I’ve called 911 twice; the first time was the day after 9-11-01, 9-12-01, if I must spell it out. It was evening and I was sitting in the backyard. I was home alone when a transformer on the telephone pole behind my house exploded. Being 9-12-01, it crossed my mind- I’ll admit- that the 9100 block of Clemson Drive in Garland, Texas was under attack. The second time I called was when I was trying to help a man stand up who was trying to faint. He wanted to sit down, but we were outside and all I could aim him toward was a riding lawn mower. He had a bowel movement before he was seated and while I was trying to tell the operator the address. As difficult as the circumstances were in both cases, the dialing of the numbers, the placing of the call, was easy.

The pizza guy had none of those extenuating circumstances. He simply called 911. And then he waited for the police to arrive so he could provide- his words- “back-up” ! What, one must ask, might the back-up have been which he could have provided? Good intentions aside- and I’m sure they were good- but what could he have done? What might have been needed to be done? Face it, I say..the guy hung around- as I would, as you would- to see what was going to happen. In fact, the police would have had to forcibly remove me from the scene for me to have left such a scene of interesting potential!   (When I was in college, I delivered pizza for a year; not much that is exciting happens while delivering pizza. An event like this would have been regarded by most of us drivers at the time as a gift from an almighty and loving God.)

The woman was rescued- hallelujah!- from the cashless kidnapper. He will probably be able to kick himself in prison for quite a few years for not stopping at an ATM machine on the way home from  his criminal activity. Adding further insult to injury, I’m guessing  his story will take on mythical dimensions of stupidity and ineptitude after a few years of being embellished by  various cell mates. I refuse to imagine anything else that may befall him beyond this point.

But I continue to wonder about the pizza delivery guy, as I wonder about all persons like him who seem to hang around long enough to talk to a news reporter. What would he have said to enquiring minds who need to know? “Well, I held the phone firmly with my left hand, and dialed with the second finger of my right hand because I had previously injured my first finger- the one I would normally dial with.” I’m not- no way, no how- demeaning what this guy did; I’m just saying, who wouldn’t have done the same thing? A person is in trouble- it’s easy to make a contribution toward the solution; do it.

Hero? Again, the guy who falls on a grenade is a hero. The woman who runs into a burning house to save children or pets is a hero. The employee who blows the whistle on a criminal employer, and risks their job to do so, is a hero. Calling 911 is not heroic. It is practical. It is the proper thing to do.

OK. I’m not only sliding this soapbox back out of the way, I’m taking an ax to it. You might want to hang around in case the ax head flies off. You can call 911, and tell whoever asks, about what might have happened. Shoot, some would say you’re already a hero since you’re willing to take on such a job. In fact, you ARE a hero! You are!

You are. Really. You and the pizza guy.

 

Hero- overused word of the hour..

 

“…be thankful for new young heroes.”

Those are the final words of an article by Gil LeBreton, in the sports section of today’s Fort Worth Star-Telegram, regarding last Saturday’s collapse of a large fabric and metal practice facility. The article is his contribution to the new pastime of American media-types: find the hero! LeBreton continues,
“These weren’t firemen or policemen. These were players who, within seconds after the collapse, were courageously kicking in a window to free a team scout, lifting heavy steel supports to free a sports writer or ripping apart vinyl with their bare hands to free others.”
 

My God- can you believe it- “Shredding vinyl with their bare hands” ? And, “courageously kicking in a window” ? These are young football players who have turned around and gone back into a vinyl and metal building that has fallen down. It was not a burning building, and it was not about to explode. There were no known or suspected I.E.D.s anywhere near the facility. There were people yelling for assistance, who had been trapped by the metal beams, one of whom- Rich Behm- was permanently paralyzed.
Is it wrong for me to think that these men who went back to help others are not heroes? What they did was not in the least dangerous to themselves- the players were, in fact, still wearing their pads. They helped lift metal that they were very capable of lifting. They tore vinyl to get at people caught underneath it. They responded as humans for a million years have responded to other friendly humans in trouble, and with very little possible risk to themselves in this case. They were good guys, as almost anyone in their positions at the time would be.

I find the rush to call anyone heroic who does something well, rather silly and very diluting of those few very real heroic efforts which do happen from to time. I personally don’t even call Sully Sullenberger a hero for doing what he did very very well when he landed his aircraft on the Hudson River. A fine, and very cool, and extremely competent pilot? Yes! Give the man a raise, a fine cigar, and a book deal! But he did what he was supposed to do: he landed the plane. He’d trained for such an emergency, hoped he’d never have to use that training, but did use it very well when called upon to do so.
A heroic effort is that which involves entering a conflict when not doing so would be advisable and understandable, in order to ease the burden or danger of another person (or other living being). Heroic efforts do not include-ever- a sports person working to win a game. We have seen some ballplayers recently who forfeited games by doing altruistic things for the other team. That’s heroism. Cutting left, then right, then lowering one’s head as the touchdown is run toward- is not. They do not include little children calling 9-1-1 because their mommy’s unconscious. A terrific kid, well-trained, smart, cute, savvy, etc..absolultely! But there was not a choice involved; he/she did the only they could do.

Heroes (and heroines- it’s a word I’m not using here because it is awkward to do so; understand, though, that there is no gender implied within ‘heroism.’) are not people who offer help at no risk to themselves just because there are people who are paid and the way to do so (EMTs and police or fireman). There is nothing heroic about a 275 offensive tackle in pads helping lift a metal bar off someone who is trapped by that bar. He’d be an absolute ass if he didn’t help!

The absurb overuse of hero designation is a phenomenon of the media, primarily. I do not hear, in normal conversation, the word ever being used. I think there is an intrinsic understanding among most people that there is a hallowedness implicit in the word and that the use of the word hero should be spare. But that is not true of the news-spitters on Channels 4,5,6,7, or 11. Watch them tonight and you WILL see one or more of them succumb to the apparently always-audible sirens’ song of invitation to sing of the great Ulysses’ glorious deeds. The fireman climbing the tree for a cat, the 7′3″ mega-rich forward going in for a layup, and the clerk who ran out of the store and up the street to return a forgotten purse to a customer: sorry, but I’ve seen the pictures of firemen heading up stair cases that are about to come tumbling down. You have, too. And they are my benchmark now for defining heroism.

 
That may be an impossible high standard, but so be it. Those firemen (and other genuine and real heroes) do not deserve to have the memory of what they did sullied by a local newsman’s desire to inspire and be memorable to his viewing audience. Nor do we deserve to have our own standards lessened.