Monday, June 16

 

It's cold this morning, and overcast, so I think we'll plan for a day at home.  I was up at my usual hour of 7 o'clock and, as is my wont, turned on the TV to see what is happening in the world.  I can't take my eyes off the US at the moment, watching a once-great nation deal with a self-inflicted wound.  I've been saying for years that Trump thinks of himself as a king and now the NO KINGS protests are bearing that idea out.  Of course, the weakness is the US Constitution which gives the President too much power.  Sadly, I don't see a happy ending.

I've just found the results of a survey ranking the happiest nations in the world.  USA has dropped from 18th to 23rd in the last year.  Australia hangs around 8th and New Zealand is 9th.  That says something, but I'm not sure what.

Maybe I've posted the following story before; if so, I apologise, but here it is again.

ONE SUMMER LONG AGO

Summer in Australia can be a magic time. Along the coastline are thousands of tiny beaches and, in the hills can be found cool fern gullies where the sting of the sun can be forgotten. Most of us look forward to the summer as a time for long days of relaxation and fun.

 Summer for some people, though, can be a terrible time. One summer, long ago, I found myself transferred to a little one-teacher school in an insignificant town in New South Wales. The kids were great, the locals welcomed me and it was not long before I was a regular at the local pub, playing games of pool and going out for the occasional ‘roo shooting adventure at the weekend.  It was hard living alone but there were other compensations

One Friday night, I was at my usual table in the pub when one of the locals came over to talk to me.  I’d seen him around and knew he was well-respected; among other things, he was in charge of the local volunteer fire brigade. I had heard that fire-fighters give their all to protect their community and when I lived in the city I’d sometimes glance over the stories in the newspapers of the sacrifices made by ordinary men and women who regularly risked their health and their lives.

I’d had a beer or two that evening and was feeling relaxed when the Fire Captain told me that the fire season was about to start and asked me why I hadn’t joined the local brigade.  Caught without a reasonable excuse handy, I thought I might be able to feign a bad leg or asthma to avoid risking my life, but to no avail.  It wasn’t long before I found myself, literally, in the line of fire.

After some basic training I had been called out to my first fire.  Dressed in my firefighter’s orange uniform I was wondering why I was there.  A girlfriend had once told me I had the body of a dancer and the soul of a poet, but now I was fitted out in the trappings of a man of action.  I’d taught my students about the beauty of the Australian bush but had never thought that I might be called upon to make some sacrifice to preserve it.  My self-belief didn’t stretch to considering myself a hero. Heroism, surely, is reserved for those gifted few who have the ability to set aside their own individual fears in the pursuit of some result which will bring them no personal gain.  If I were pressed, I might have thought the dedicated volunteers who worked tirelessly year in and year out ‘ought to get a life’.  Yet, here I was, kitted out in unaccustomed, unflattering and ill-fitting orange, wielding an unfamiliar heavy tool, expecting at any moment to be ordered to meet the on-coming fire face to face.

I’ll gloss over the details of my baptism of fire.  I survived the fire season more by good luck than by ability and was pleased that my transfer back to the city arrived before I was forced to endure another summer like that one long ago.