My Russian Cab Driver And Being A Tourist.

     Sometimes I think white people that have lived most of their lives in North America forget that other white people may have drastically different culture. I don't want this to sound racist, it is only a theory based of my own observations. Canadians may fare slightly better as we have Quebec and they have a distinctly different culture and one I am proud to have part of Canada.

For example, when we arrived in Anapa Russia one of our new bus friends gave us the number for a cab driver. He had a large enough car to accommodate all of our luggage.  It also turned out Vladimir spoke English. A very rare thing in the seaside resort of Anapa, Russia. Prior to moving to Anapa he had been a military pilot and explained in rusty but very articulate English that he had learned and later instructed English at a small island military base near Alaska.  In his prime, this man's dialect and intonation would have been perfect. His grasp of vocabulary and grammar was better than some English speaking Americans. When we arrived at our apartment, my wife Inga invited him up for a coffee and lunch. I thought this was very odd but just rolled with it.  He shared our meal and seemed to enjoy practicing English.

Later in the month we needed another ride out to the railway station to buy tickets for Ingas sister's girls and so we called Vladimir. He drove us out to the station and suggested we do some swimming at a local beach out near the station. I said yes. I find I am doing that a lot; agreeing and sometimes I even know what I am agreeing to. So one the way back Vladimir pulled into a long side road and parked. The girls, Vladimir, and myself went swimming for an hour on our driver's favourite beach. Then when we were done he invited us back to his house after quickly calling his wife. We accepted the invitation and found ourselves in a very nice little single home surrounded by a vegetable garden. Inside was spotless and nicely decorated home and we got the grand tour as Vladimir's wife got coffee, wine, caviar, and pancakes made with shaved zucchini ready. We shared a meal and learned and shared the names of different vegetables. It was an exceptionally pleasant afternoon that had me thinking about these cultural differences.

     When I was a child living in Cloverdale, all sorts of events used to take place at the fairgrounds. Living so close by we used to jump the back fence and sneak into most of them. One day we noticed large orange banners and strange music so a few buddies and me did what we always had done and jumped the fence for a look. This time was different; we were immediately captured by very tall, stern looking bearded men wearing turbans and swords! They told us to follow them with thick accents and very basic grasp of English. We followed them sure we were going to get reported to the police or worse. To our surprise and delight they brought us to a large outside area full of exotic smells. We were given plates and placed in a line. Following those in front of us we offered the plates to the ladies and they proceeded to heap large amounts of food and treats onto them. We were ushered to seats and shared a meal. I had never eaten anything like this in Canada and was surprised at how good it all tasted. After there were dances and swordplay and my friends and I enjoyed a new culture five hundred meters from my backyard.

Later when these new Canadians had issues in school or in social situations I found myself sympathetic to their plight. Not because I am an overly accepting person but because these people had showed me their cultural kindness. They had accepted my trespass for what it was, curiosity, and welcomed it and me with a meal. This simple act dictated how I interacted with Indo-Canadians for the rest of my life. Many are now proudly my friends and while sometimes their cultural differences make me pause and think it is thought with acceptance that asks could this difference make me better if I adopted it.

 I guess at the core of this is an explanation for why I would choose to leave the country many are risking everything to come to. I love Canada; I served in the military to protect her and would lay down my life for the values she represents. Is it perfect, or the best country? No, it is not. It could be better. It would do well to remember the things that built it and separated it from our neighbours. It was built by immigration and adopted the different cultures of those that made it. We should continue to do those things. Not all cultural differences should or could be adopted but surely we could grab a few of the good ones.

 Vladimir took us home, full, refreshed, and with treats from the garden. He told me the fare for the ride, the exact amount for a round trip to the railway station. We were new friends, and business is separate, as we all have to eat. I totally, culturally, got it.


       Yesterday we went to a place in Anapa called Gold Beach. It is attached to a development and

small cabin style accommodations. It is a private beach with a quasi all-inclusive setup. It is a exquisite place and it is very expensive. I don’t mean expensive from a local perspective but from a North American tourist perspective as well. So the question of value comes into play. I don’t mind spending big money for big service or exclusive treatment so did Gold Beach deliver? Yes and No.

The day was sweltering and busy. The local beaches were packed and as it was later in the morning getting a quiet place to sit, relax, and write was not going to happen. We have been living rather frugally as of late so I suggested we give this place a try. The price of admittance is only five hundred rubles per person, or a little over fifteen dollars Canadian. A reasonable price for privacy, comfortable lounge chairs, and open access to showers and toilets. It is also supposed to come with WiFi. It did have WiFi, but I couldn’t hookup to it from my phone or my laptop. The signal strength just wasn’t good enough on the beach area. It worked on the upper deck. Food is reasonably priced and superb, while drinks from the two bars are very expensive. I mean expensive from a North American standard. Don’t get me wrong; they are magnificent, prepared with exacting care and with the best of ingredients so from a value perspective I would still give it a plus.

Where I guess it fell down for me is from a customer service perspective. The bartenders were good, and very skilled but not at all friendly. They weren’t rude, but they were stereotypically Russian. While a stereotype, I had yet to experience this cold demeanor,. In my usual little “sea bar," Sergey my bartender and now facebook friend took exceptional care of me. He realized I couldn’t speak the language and took the time to be very clear and helped facilitate food orders and the like. To put a finer point on this, today is his day off. He is enjoying the day with his very beautiful girlfriend swimming in the Sea by the bar. He took a second, so quietly I almost didn’t notice, to hover near the bar while I
ordered my usual. He isn’t getting paid today, and to put it into perspective he probably doesn’t make half of what the bartenders at the Gold Beach make. Yet he took the time away from his girl to make sure I was ok. This is the other end of customer service and something I wouldn’t expect from a Canadian host at a resort, yet here it is.

So I guess the stereotypes prevail, and fail, depending on where one goes in Anapa. Strangely most North American tourists would go to Gold Beach and experience this while none would come to my little “no place special yet twice a beautiful” and experience the complete opposite.  Perhaps this is why the stereotype prevails? I hadn’t experienced it in two months of being in Russia. So I was a little shocked to find it in such an exclusive place as Gold Beach. Is it perhaps because Russians that go there expect their bar staff to be aloof? I have experienced this in exclusive clubs in Las Vegas. I treat my servers in The Foundation Room as old friends I haven’t seen in a few months and they treat me the same. Some of my friends, some American some Canadian prefer to be treated with a little more deference and as such they are. It is what they are comfortable with, and the style they prefer? Perhaps it is similar at Gold Beach?

I will be going again to Gold Beach with a very powerful and connected businessman from Anapa. I will compare the differences and post an update if required. I am not saying this place should be off your travel list if you come to Anapa.  Actually quite the contrary, it is a very nice beach with great surroundings and a kid friendly yet quite enough for adult's place. The lifeguards watch the swimmers, not their phones, and all is as advertised. The fancy inside restaurant looks quite awesome, with sea views and varied menu. It is Foundation Room Vegas expensive and written all in Russian so as a person that can’t speak the language I wasn’t comfortable ordering as you pay for things based on grams. In the example if a steak is 20 dollars per 100 grams then, you pay whatever the cut of beef that hits your plate weighs. By contrast, a Foundation Room menu breaks that down for you offering 10oz or 14oz option at fixed prices. When faced with a phone number level bill, this certainly adds a little comfort to your dining experience. In this place, I wasn’t sure if my bill would be less than the large amount of walking around money I had on me and Credit Cards are hit and miss as far as authorization goes in this country. All for my own protection; I have been assured by the companies that issued the cards although to date only my US issued card has been a problem. Global conspiracy theory implied. It has been said Banks not Tanks shape the future of nations now.

            I was asked the other day by my favourite bartender and new Facebook friend if my book was available in Russian. I think he reads quite well in Russian but so much is lost in translation. I remember my nephew Mike commenting on The Metamorphosis, a novella by Franz Kafka, and my partner at the time reflecting that it lost a great deal in the translation from German. Now I most certainly am not comparing my work to Kafka and I don’t think Grey Redemption would be a hard translation as the concepts are very simple, but I think the size is a stumbling block.

        I have many fans and readers in Russia no doubt because it is not a hurrah for America we win novel. Not that this was meant as a slight on America. But friends and family you can’t win all the time and I am getting a little bored with the expectation that you do. So to my readers and fans in Russia I will tell you the same thing I told my friend Sergey. “If it is meant to be it will happen."

It is a good idea for all writers to adopt this kind of thinking. I write to entertain, but in reality I write to get the stories out of my head. I commented the other day on Facebook that I saw someone reading Boy’s Life by Robert R. McCammon in Anapa Russia the other day. It was a translated copy. I hated and loved this book as a teen and I told Rick this once as we had breakfast together. It was his departure from one genre, and one I loved to a new one and one he has become more famous for writing. Great for Rick and bad for Scott. However he recently finished The Five that once again proved his horror writing days are not over.

This Day We Write Challenge!

 

      One of the things I loved about my childhood was Sunday mornings. On most Sundays, my Mom made bread from scratch. She didn't use a bread-maker; they had yet to be invented. I would wake up to find discoloured old pans laid out, greased, and ready for the next batch. The house perfumed with the scent of fresh bread. This in itself is a wonderful memory, but what makes it even better were "Dough-Dodgers."  These were the leftover pieces of bread that Mom would toss in a large vat of oil. They would plump up and were awesome.

The quaint little seaside bar that stocks my Guinness gets something similar delivered at 10 am each day. I say similar, but they are the same with the added treat of being stuffed with mashed potato and cheese or fried onions. I am not quite sure which of these are my favorites, more research is required.

I mention this in the context of "This Day We Write." A phrase I am going to attribute to Robert Dugoni made popular at the Surrey International Writers Conference in 2012. This may not be completely accurate but like most history it is how I remember it.

     The other day I posted a picture on Twitter that showed my new office view and challenged other writers to post up the same. I didn't do this to brag my place was the nicest or anything. I did it to help inspire and place into context some of the ideas of "This Day We Write." As a writer, the most important thing we do is write. We may create and get ideas as we go through our daily lives, but the core of the discipline is writing.

     Yesterday it rained in Anapa. When it rains here it actually pours. Torrents of rainwater rush down the streets threatening small cars and children left unattended. So it was less than my usual sunny day lets go down to the beach eat a Dough-Dodger, drink a Guinness, and write kind of days. I also had the flu, and not one of the wimpy North American varieties. I will spare you the details but consider I never lost a pound in my two bouts in Africa with malaria and this "flu" shaved six kilograms off me in one day. So I didn't feel like writing.

So I sat down and lacking any real creative inspiration past wrapping my Mac in plastic wrap "just in case" I did a bunch of editing. In that process, I discovered a little creativity in cutting things that didn't push the story forward. But the point is I wrote!

For me at least this is what being a professional writer is all about. It isn't waiting for a blast of creative insight or great opening line. It is about the discipline of sitting down each and every day and doing it. When it is kept in the forefront of our mind, research, creativity, and execution come easier than waiting till the nebulas inspiration strikes you.

    So the "challenge" was to allow new writers to see how we as published authors did it. Kathy Chung responded with a very serene picture of the yard with an empty chair. Does the empty chair represent the reader? Does the looming Black Sea in my picture represent the unknown distance Rhys must go in my manuscript?  I am not sure as I am not really that good in "reading" into things.  But I think the exercise is a valid one. So with this blog and with a few more posts on Twitter I will again attempt to get more people engaged in this little exercise. So do it to inspire new writers or do it to get retweeted by someone who has more followers than you but let's do it!

 Russia is ripe with rumors and allegations of hardcore criminal activity, organized crime and gang violence. Until the other night, I had seen no overt evidence of this. Conspiracy theories and stories abound about all sorts of people, places, and things. Russians love to talk in hushed tones with close friends about the latest issue that might be going on. It is a fun pastime and one I am learning to not put much weight in. The locals don't, but they still love to talk about it. The other day we had huge waves and a small earthquake. The various theories ran the gambit of a Russian atom crusher sub getting blown up by an American sub chaser off the coast of Crimea to an event created by HARP in Alaska. The Russian people are very creative. I commented that it was probably just a shift in the plates under the Black Sea, a very seismically active area and wave action usually follows.  While my grasp of the language is poor, my grasp of body language is excellent, and the body language said wet blanket. My logical explanation lacked creativity and something to build on. So like Spock in an improvisational comedy I had dropped the ball.  But I started this paragraph with the other night gang attack so I shouldn't keep you in suspense.

    The night had a crooked moon, blood red with foreshadowing and had I been in a Robert McCammon novel I would have been aware of the pending assault. But I wasn't I was in tourist mode walking back from a popular nightclub after having a few beer and salted fish, as is the custom. Like Vegas walking on the street with a bottle is not really legal but it is for the most part ignored. The Rose Park was closed so I cut down a back alley the street lights failing to reach into the dark recesses of the street. I felt I was being watched before I saw anyone. Years of training did not fail me but try as might to find the reason for this feeling I could not. Although as I approached the corner, this changed,  I spotted the first one. He was sitting down on his haunches, common in Russia, trying to look very casual. Too casual and when his eyes darted in my direction, for just a second, I knew my sense of being followed was correct.

I passed a car and used the rear window as a mirror to look behind me. A flash of movement, crouching low crossed behind me. Hugging the shadows from one side of the alley to the other. Watching my progression down the street with feral eyes filled with need. I knew I was the target of this desire and wished I'd taken a cab. I felt the alcohol fight with and loose to the sudden surge of adrenaline. It was going to happen soon.

I searched for others. The odds were not bad right now, but I also knew more had to be involved. Two more appeared as if on command, summoned by my fear as surely as the streetlight sudden failure had been orchestrated. I tensed my legs pumping blood into the muscles for the fight I knew was coming. There would be no option to speak with these predators; I simply lacked the language skills.  The one keeping point turned and looked right at me, our eyes locked and I knew it was go time.

The demand was direct and drawn out long, and while I didn't understand what the sound was I knew what was being said. Suddenly, as if to drive a point to the demand three others, I had yet to see flanked me and repeated the same sound with authority. The two I had seen took up positions watching up and down the street, for police we all knew would not be coming. The one that had been following me up the dark alley casually bumped me letting me know he was close.

So I was faced with a potentially very hostile situation, six against one. While all of us were adequately armed, I knew, I wasn't getting out of this unscathed. So faced with this reality I handed over the left over fish I had been stupid enough to leave the bar with. Each one approached knowing they had won this challenge and took the tribute in their mouth before disappearing back into the shadows, the last one giving me a light swat with his paw, letting me know I got off easy.

 Cats in Russia seem to be the only overt sign of territorial activity. Certain stores and shops have cats that stake out the front. Welcoming those that are familiar and watching, in that judgmental fashion only cats can do, those they don't know. My apartment complex has a few and each has a very specific territory and while meetings of a sort take place it seems very structured. This has been the only overt sign of gang activity I have seen.

 Now I am not naïve, I know in anyplace where money and transient population meet you will have organized crime. Vegas and Monte Carlo come to mind. Anapa is probably no different. What I guess is different is it is invisible. I am trained to spot these types of people and made a career of doing it well and sensing violence prior to it happening. To date I have seen nothing of the sort. I have most certainly witnessed deference displayed to VIP people, but is this because they are feared or respected? Are they criminals or pillars of the community? Perhaps a little of both?  I said to a friend here the other day that I thought the salient difference between Canada and Russia gangs and criminal activity is in Russia you know who the criminals are. They come by your shop and you pay them to keep the drunks, and petty criminals away. At home, we call that taxes and taxes pay cops to do the same. Here it is just private with fewer people having their nose in the trough. Isn't that capitalism?

A Walk in the Garden with PTSD

Revelation most often comes in my life like an errant snowball right to the junk. This particular snowball was actually a series of photographs that were put together for my fortieth birthday. I didn’t see it then. I did see it eight years later when I played it for a new friend. There in the images of me, as if a magical mirror, I saw it. Rather I saw the absence of it. I saw the absence of joy. I don’t know if my defence system was down, or if I was “just ready” to see it. But like many of the things seen that got me here I knew I would not be able to ignore it. Just as I knew I’d try.


What exactly am I talking about? Fair question and one I don’t think I could have answered three weeks ago. I am talking about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. The really weird thing is three weeks ago I would have punched you in the head for even suggesting I had it. I actually never really thought; “Hey my dick isn’t showing up for the game without some serious coaching. Something must be wrong!” Drinking a sixty of vodka a week for the past seven years, you would think, might draw my attention.

Nope! I didn’t have a damn clue. Now before you start doing the judgement thing and trying to convince yourself, in that really loud voice we save for situations just like this. Let me stop you. I have a B.A. from a great University with a minor in Psychology. I also have job specific training to an advanced level in Critical Incident Stress Management, or CISM for short. I’ve worked as a Federal Correctional Officer for twenty five years and get paid to be aware, observe, and react to behavioural issues. But I missed it completely until I saw this old picture and was struck by the absence I saw there.

Even then I really didn’t let myself believe it was Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, or PTSD, for short. For short, don’t you just love that? Because somehow when we abbreviate, it doesn’t sound quite so overwhelming, or embarrassing. No, I went for the simple question. Why don’t I look happy? I mulled that one over for quite a bit. I have great friends, a good job. I fly to Vegas three times a year to have fun. I get laid on a regular basis, and enjoy a very good life. Yet the evidence was staring at me like the mirror above the toilet you just puked in.

I came back to this absent stare, adorned with a plastic smile. The answer came when I rephrased the question. Not why but what. What is making me unhappy? I’ve never been a great supporter of A.A. but in this case they’re right. Acceptance is the first step. That answer isn’t the easiest thing to put into words even for a professional author. But what I can do is define what PTSD does and in that provide a better definition. PTSD creates shadows in your soul and steals the light from your eyes. Ok, sure it is a little florid as a definition from a Prison Guard. But, even if it is I think it is the most accurate. Let me explain.

If you got mauled by a dog and after, when a dog barked, your hands shook and you dribbled pee, it wouldn’t take a psychologist to figure out what your malfunction was. Sure you could develop PTSD from a serious dog mauling, but that’s not my point. My point is that this break down is insidious. For me it was slow and spanned several years. In this lies the real bitch of the bunch for diagnosis. Because we live in cycles, sometimes up sometimes down, how do you know it is a psychological issue and not just a mood? Because past all the overt signs of emotional dysfunction and inappropriate self medicating coping skills, it does something else. It causes brain damage. Images of the brain actually show physical changes inside the sticky parts of your bean. This damage seems to install a worthless filter. You look at things without the “light” of positivity. It also installs “shadows” that echo and cast doubt at the very core of your personality. So while fancy I think this is for me the best place to start.

I say start because from here the choice is to deal with it or say fuck it and carry on. I’ve been functional for a long time with this problem. I am lucky to have genes that allow me to drink, and a job where is a little antisocial behaviour is acceptable. So do I accept that this is just what happens to us? Do I accept that these traumas are going to influence me for the rest of my life?

I went to school for sixteen years and hated ninety five percent of it. But I did it so I could get a job I liked and have a good life. I didn’t hit that goal and knock it out of the park either, but it’s been ok. I’d like to have a retirement that kind of makes up for it. I can’t do that suffering from PTSD. So this is something I can choose to do or continue thinking things like: “Well if I were to get killed today at work I’d be ok with it as I’ve done enough of my bucket list!”

So this is a story; A walk in the Garden of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. It is most certainly not a self help book. I hate those and to be honest generally loath the people that read them. It’s just a story of one guy trying to fix all the shit that fucked him up. My hope is that by telling it you get hit by a snowball, right in the junk!

I guess the best place to begin is at the end. For me it was sitting with a drink in hand, staring into a box of things that used to mean something, and grasping at the vapours of why. Now in my case it really was a box. But it doesn’t have to be. It can be a journal, an old car you use to like to restore, or your golf game. The”it” of the box really doesn’t matter. The lack of interest is the important bit, along with the trying to discover what happened. If you’re depressed you might not want to go pull wrenches on the 69 Cutlass. However, if you are asking yourself why it is sitting in the garage, and why you ever tossed cash at it? You might want to look a little closer. If you’re Tiger Woods and your game is off do you blame the grass, or your emotional state?

I could go into a few comparisons here, actually I did, and all of them would have got me sued by Wood’s legal team. So I am left and you by default, with my examples. The melodramatic Scott might say a drink in one hand, gun in the other. In fact I believe I did write that exactly to my x-wife. But in reality the survivor mentality was so entrenched at this point suicide was never a solution. Life was going to come along and do it for me at any time. Normal people, when faced with the likely probability of death, react rather poorly. Sure, we hear the stories about the ones that championed above and overcame the odds. We hear about those for the same reason we read about heroes in books and not the stable boy that died under the horse. In reality people don’t do well with the impending doom scenario. I was cool with it, so long as I lived up to the challenge and went out swinging; part of me welcomed it.

The strange part of this for me is that I believe suicide is weak. A coward’s way out. I’ve had three friends do this over the years and I view each one of them as pathetic for doing so. By friends I don’t mean I knew them on Facebook. I am talking friendship like you could show up at their door, drunk, with a hooker in tow at three in the morning. They’d open the door and even though their wife’s mother was over and they were both in their cycle, he’d let you in. After calling a cab for the prostitute, let’s not be unrealistic.

A caveat, I think suicide is an ok option if you have a horrible debilitating disease that can’t be treated, is only going to get worse, and will take you anyway. Then it is like a “fuck-you” to death itself. I get to kill me before you do! PTSD is all of these things with one difference. If you’re aware of it you can fix it. Awareness!

I know I am going on about this being the hook in the Virus that changes it from benign flu, to the Shepherd's crook that spells Ebola. I want to err on the side of caution and say if you’ve been in a first responder or Emergency services position for longer than six months you should find and do one of the many PTSD checklists available. BE HONEST! We can lie to ourselves about everything but in this one case attempt to be honest. Your life and happiness depends on it.

So we have the first and second A’s in our program; Awareness and Acceptance. The final start to this road to recovery is Adaptation. We learn as Emergency personal to adapt everything we know to overcome the issue we find ourselves faced with. I remember in Staff College being told how this or that is policy or procedures based on best practices, but wait ‘till you get to the Joint. Then the real learning begins. Those instructors understood that they couldn’t teach us how to overcome each challenge we’d face, because the nature of our businesses is people and people are unpredictable. This normal unpredictability gets all the more interesting when coupled with substance and mental health issues. This described many of the offenders I worked with over the course of twenty five years!

I remember one afternoon working in the unit of a maximum security jail when a convict came down to the office just after my partner had finished a tier walk. He came to the door and said that we’d better do another round. My partner asked why and the convict, wanting to remain solid (not a tattletale or rat) replied, “Just do another fucking round”.

We both got up and did another round finding an inmate had cut the tip of his penis off with a homemade knife fashioned out of a tin can. There was a great deal of blood and the Inmate was very pale and sweaty. Seems the inmate had converted to Judaism and been denied the surgery to remove his foreskin. Taking matters into his own hands had proved, on application, to be a little more difficult that it first seemed. My partner, being much more senior to me, reacted and told the inmate just how stupid this was and that he’d better squeeze as hard as he could or he’d bleed out.

The inmate was walked to the jail’s infirmary and a doctor was called. I, being the rookie, was tasked with staying with the whimpering convict while the doctor made the thirty minute drive to the jail. The doctor was an elderly man, having done many years as a military doctor before contracting with the Correctional Service.

He attended the isolation cell inside the hospital wing and asked the inmate; “What in Christ’s name would make you do that to yourself?” The inmate mumbled something about wanting to be Jewish and the old doctor just laughed. The nurse prepared the inmate for surgery as the old doctor went and washed his hands, and I just watched the blood ooze from his decapitated dick. I was not accustomed to looking at other men’s penises, yet couldn’t look away. The soon to be coined car wreak syndrome.

The doctor returned and before slipping on gloves to my amazement pulled out a pouch of Black Cat tobacco and rolled himself a cigarette. The nurse helped him slip on his gloves and then paused to light his smoke. With smoke curling past his head he set to stitching this inmate’s penis together. The inmate cried out and I held him down as he yelled. “Aren’t you gonna freeze it first Doc!”

I remember very clearly what the doctor said and the look he gave the inmate, as I struggled to secure the violent convict. “Did you freeze it before you did this?” He said pulling the hand rolled smoke from his ruddy face, blue grey eyes fixed on the convict’s.

“No.” Whimpered the convict, shrinking under the old surgeon’s steely gaze. As if the man was more Medusa than doctor. Putting the cigarette back into his mouth he mumbled. “Didn’t think so.”

Then with adamant protest from the convict he continued the delicate task. The inmate picked up the tempo of his complaints and the nickname Half Cap for his trouble.

I didn’t know it at the time but I passed my first line screw test. I had stayed and did my job. I had adapted and overcame the rather disturbing incident, and had done so without complaint. My reward was to be invited to the Legion after work for drinks. I was the first of my group of new fish to be extended this privilege, and I blew it.

The Legion was the only place you could drink in Uniform and not run afoul of the Code of Conduct. It was close to the jail and basically on the way home for almost everyone. As such it collected an assortment of Officers, or as they called themselves back then. Line Screws, Guards, and Digger Pigs. I was proud to be asked to attend and listened as the tale of the headless hammer was told. My mistake was commenting on the incident in an emotional manner. I really don’t remember how I put my words, but suffice that they all landed in my mouth sideways.

I was immediately told that this incident was hardly of note and if it weren’t for the fact the guy sliced his “Johnson” it hardly would have been brought up. Then I was regaled with three stories, each worse than the next further entrenching the idea that today was a pretty easy day. So began my career and the first stroll in the garden with PTSD. Staff College had offered little if any training in dealing with stress. My peer group had been through far worse and admonished my feelings as trivial and weak. I adapted, and pushed them deep down next to the childhood terrors instilled by McCammon and Lovecraft, and nurtured by yours truly.

While my peer’s condemnation at the time had been harsh I came to understand how very true it was. But before those of you first responders reading this drop into that comfortable old rusty armour of “You don’t know what bad is” let me assure you, I’ve seen bad. I’ve seen a guy hit with a bat so hard his head popped and one of his eyes came out. I’ve seen men open their forearms like gutted salmon and bleed out. I’ve got between men bent on killing one another, tackling one to prevent him from stomping an already ruined head into mush. I’ve witnessed the despondent slash his throat, and bleed into a flushing toilet in order to hide his act. His whimper chasing tears “ratting” him out and drawing my attention. I lived through riots, hostage takings, and the proverbial catch all, “isolated incidents”. I survived them all. I never went to counselling. I didn’t need it. Everything just rolled off my back with no impact.

Or so I believed right up to my revelation. Then even after that memorable snowball I tried to ignore it as I really didn’t know how to fix it and I was well adapted to ignoring things. Divorce, death, destructive practices and hobbies, I had ignored the lot! I most certainly wasn’t prepared to bring them to the surface with a professional. Besides, what help could an arm chair observer provide? How was navel gazing and discussing my feelings going to make this new reality ice-cream and rainbows? I understand, believe, and support getting professional help. I also know Officers and know it has to be almost insurmountable before we do. I believe this is because at a core level we need to believe we can adapt to overcome any challenge. We after all have lived and corrected the worst offenders in Canada. Eaten lunch and drank our coffee in societies worst neighbourhoods. We do it every day, come home and tell our partners nothing happened. We’d adapted to our environment. Became a product of that adaptation and were comfortable in it.

So we know my revelations are painful. My epiphanies are even worse! I figured I should do the test and stop drinking for a couple of months. Follow some general advice and talk to someone, to try and get this life back on track. I had arrived at the awareness level and had basically come to terms with the acceptance side of the equation. Professional navel gazing sessions helped to take the “basically” out of the last statement.

So what was left was adaptation. Having proved that despite drinking copious amounts of Vodka for a very long time I was not an alcoholic I filled a flask, dug out a cigar and figured it was time to do some hard thinking. I like doing this type of therapy alone and preferably by the sea. I like the rhythmic crashing of waves and the small feeling I get staring out at the vastness of our coast. Cigar alight, and flask open I basically set my mind to drift on things. Attention deficit hyper active disorder is a large obstacle to overcome and I was quickly entranced by a bird. The wind was scything onto the shore tossing huge waves into the grey rocks. The dark water chased the white surf toward me, while this bird pitched and rolled in the air above. It was caught by a hard gust and driven harder still into the rocks about eight meters to my left disappearing for a second in the debris that littered the area just above the surf line. I heard it make a sound. It was a sound in-between a chirp and a squeak and not very pleasant. I jumped to my feet thinking one thing and forgetting one crucial item.

I thought that this was a very traumatic event for the bird and it may be hurt. I forgot I hadn’t had a cigar or a drink in several weeks. The rocks pitched under my feet, and I followed them forward. I landed chin first on a large and thankfully barnacle free rock, my teeth grinding together threatening to break. Instinctively I had saved the vodka and cigar, tossing my arms out in a cross fashion and failing to get my elbows down prior to my chin. The bird jumped up onto a rock of its own, looked over at me, chirped, and opened its wings to the gale. It had adapted, and I had my epiphany along with the burnt chalk taste of chipped teeth.

It seems to me, like the bird, first responders’ have to work in what is at times a hostile environment. But it isn’t like that all the time. In fact most days are pretty much just average days. Other days are really good, and a few are really bad. If we allow ourselves to focus on just the bad days then they start to feel like forever. But if we adapt and allow the situation to just be as it is and choose to instead focus on the good days it doesn’t seem so hard. The malevolent storm that slams you into the ground in an attempt to kill you is just a wind that picks you up when you’re down. Nothing has any real type of meaning until we assign it one. If we allow ourselves to continually assign a negative meaning to the events we are forced to deal with then that bleeds into our regular life and spoils it. Fortunately for the bird this is hardwired into its brain. As humans we need to be aware of the issue, be able to put aside our pride and bravado to accept it. Then with a firm understanding, or a resounding kick in the teeth, adapt and work out coping skills that allow us to put it all into a better perspective.

A review of Robert McCammon's THE FIVE

Reading Robert McCammon’s book The Five reminded me of the book Silver On The Tree. I don’t why because for the life of me I can’t remember the plot of Silver On The Tree. I was going to look it up and answer this question first, but thought better of it. Suffering from severe attention deficit hyperactive disorder. I have learned to let stuff slide.  So even though I don’t remember the plot, I do remember it was written by Susan Cooper. Not bad considering I read this in the late seventies! But The Five brought it back, or more accurately a memory I associate with Silver On The Tree.

I was probably 14 or 15 when I read Silver On The Tree. With severe ADHD reading was an escape and one I desperately needed. I read a library of books! But the focus of this review is The Five. So why did enjoying The Five bring this back?  I get this is a review and so I can’t give away too much.  When I was a kid my Dad had installed a motion light out back of our house. In the late seventies these were pretty rare. It came on with the passing of every large cat, a cruel joke for a kid with ADHD. We had been hit with a huge ice storm and I remember the tree directly behind my window had turned silver. On this night the light had come on collecting my attention and I looked out trying to see what had moved. It was a common game, I would see the neighbour’s cat or a bird and lay back and go to sleep. But on this day I remember seeing nothing but movement not looked at directly. That is to say I could see shadows dance on the trunk of the tree but only if I did not look directly at them. It was weird, and so I went to investigate. I slipped out into the cold in just my socks and underwear to see what was there.  It never gets really cold in BC but that night was frigid past the frozen ice on the tree. It bit, and froze breath to your lips.  Looking up into this ancient tree, I saw nothing. The shadows that had called me down were gone. Replacing them was a feeling, a terror as the seconds slid forward. Something was just on the other side of the tree, it didn’t like me, and it wanted me. I didn’t want to look around that tree either. I had come down to look. Had never before been afraid to look at anything! I was a teenager and as such was indestructible. I knew, just knew, that a monster real and deadly was on the other side of that tree. The knowledge of this was crushing me in place, forcing me to stand and stretch the frozen moments with it.

I sprinted past the tree, eyes shut, hands like claws outstretched before me. I remember being very surprised by this response. Thinking to myself I had just done the worst possible thing I could do, faced with a monster behind a tree.  I hit the back fence and turned around, opening my eyes for the first time. Nothing! I was relieved and disappointed at the same time. A very odd emotional conundrum and one I wouldn’t feel again until my first wife asked for a divorce.

The Five has been compared to Boys Life. A fair comparison in some ways yet not quite a right fit. I remembered reading Boys Life in hardcover before it was on the shelves in Canada. A relative brought it up from the States, knowing I loved McCammon’s books. I read it, jacket off, as usual and having never read the teaser had no idea where the story was going to take me. I kept waiting for the monster. I had no idea of the trials and tribulations the Author was having. I didn’t know he wanted to write outside of the ‘horror proper’. I was a kid that loved McCammon’s scary stories. It was probably one of the better-written books I had read and I moved on genre-wise with the author.

But truth be told, I wanted another scary story. I am 45 and I have wanted that scary story for 20 years. The Five was worth the wait! It isn’t ‘horror proper’, it’s better! Natural and supernatural forces woven so skillfully, that you can view this story from many different angles.  It is made scarier by what you bring to the reading. Just like that dark frozen night so many years ago in my backyard. The masterly written book takes you on a Rock Bands journey and so much more. The journey is so realistic that it makes the supernatural side much more believable. A brilliant Creepy and satisfying, work of fiction, written by a master. Dare I say “The”!