Mush

I ain’t fancy enough to know the whole difference between memoir and autobiography, but I got titles for both.  Well, sort of.  Title for one and a half-finished working title for the other.  If it’s a book about trying to make some sense of the ride, the title will be “A Few Small Repairs.”  And then a subtitle, which is more yet to be revealed than determined.  Stay tuned.  I am.  

Autobiography title, in comparison, is easy peasy.  My Life As A Sled Dog. 

A Few Small Repairs is both the title of Shawn Colvin’s quite excellent fourth album and suggests things could be different – and possibly even better – with small interventions.  Though the opening track suggests setting a match to the past is the answer, other less flammable options exist.  Attention to detail.  Maybe some WD-40.  A kind word.   A change of perspective.  The lubrication of joy, and appreciation.  If a memoir is not drenched in appreciation, there ain’t no point in writing it.

On the topic of joy and appreciation, have you ever seen sled dogs at work?  Not on television, but in real life?  It is unforgettable.  Sled dogs at work - even in brutal conditions - are the happiest creatures on the planet.  Sled dogs are dolphins, if dolphins had great jobs with government pensions. 

This came to me in, of all places, traveling the wrong way in a lane of traffic in Portage, Wisconsin. 

Moments of reflection are fleeting at the moment, as I have a fair bit going on.  Marcia needs a new garden fence by next week.  Amanda would like the garden-themed bed I made for her thirty-some years ago transformed into an adventure-themed bed for Maeve, with all prudent speed.  Poynette is doing big things for its small size.  There are ZBA meetings.  There are Plan Commission meetings.  Drafting a Specific Implementation Plan for some fancy, wooded homes.  I’m the president of a fire department social organization.  There are Personnel Committee meetings.  My name is on one of the more potentially consequential truth-in-the-public-realm cases presently pending in a court of supreme fanciness.  And I need to remember to get pizza for the Chamber lunch on Wednesday. 

From chiseling wedged through-tenons with love, to drawing lot lines just so, to reading every recorded word of the notes of state constitutional conventions from the 1800s, things built to last require a standard of care that transcends the moment. 

But because spinning all these plates to a proper standard of care at once is apparently not enough, I am also taking an engineer / operator class. 

This is the class you take to become certified at driving and operating fire apparatus.  Five months of weekly night classes, and several weekends of practice and testing.  The thing is ... I didn’t really want to take Big Red Truck class because young firefighters jump out of the back and old firefighters drive, and I know (er, believe) what side of that line I am on.  But there is no telling who might show up at a volunteer department when the pagers go off, so you need to be able to do everything. 

So, anyway … me and Captain Brandon and FF James are up in Portage at Big Red Truck class Wednesday night, calculating GPMs and PSIs and friction losses whilst throwing water hundreds of feet when the pager goes off.  Fire – in theory – stops.  Fire – for real – is happening.

Throttle back engine disengage pump bleed lines shut down hydrant stow everything asap. 

James jumps in back.  Captain Brandon takes the officer perch.  I release the air brakes, punch 31 into Drive and hit the “Party On” master emergency lights switch.  Proceeding at an enthusiastic pace southward through generally northward traffic, people in Portage are perplexed.  What is a Poynette fire engine doing screaming southward through town?

We are going to a fire. And while I didn't really want to take Big Red Truck class, it comes to me while threading a fifty-thousand-pound needle southward through northbound traffic lanes that this is some interesting problem-solving happening in real time.  Problem-solving so all-consuming I turn down the volume on the Def Leppard CD in 31’s head unit to focus on the cacophonously kinetic task at hand. 

Getting the wet stuff to the red stuff.  Sweet dreams for Maeve. A better garden for Marcia. A prospering Poynette. Truth in the public realm. With all prudent speed.   

Hitch me to a purpose. Let me run.