I was delayed getting to
my uncle Ricky's memorial gathering
on Sunday. First, because I was so incredibly sad, I couldn't put my clothes
on. Second, because a goat climbed into my car. And third, because on my way there,
I came upon an accident involving my other uncle—Ricky’s younger brother--who
was trying to find the memorial in his rental car and got sideswiped by a
speeding SUV (with out-of-state plates, I might add).
The goat in question is named Dixie and she belongs to Dave
and Angel, fellow members of the Orland Fire Department. Pete and I swung by
their place on our way to the memorial to drop off Pete’s Jeep at Dave’s
garage, and as soon as I pulled up, Dixie made a bee-line for me.
I’ve only met Dixie once before and usually she lives with
the other pet goats in a backyard pen equipped with lots of things to climb on.
I suspected she wasn’t meant to be free ranging since the other goats were in
the pen and Dave and Angel seemed not to be home. Two little girls were playing
in the yard, though, and they said it was okay for Dixie to be out, so I took
their word for it. I gave Dixie some pets and scratches, and then headed back
to the car with Pete. Dixie followed.
She was utterly and sweetly fixated on coming with me. I
would lure her away from the car and then dash back and she would gallop on her
little hooves to catch up with me. The girls tried calling her to them, but she
could not be dissuaded from this notion that she and I should be together.
Pete opened the passenger-side door to get in, but Dixie climbed
in ahead of him. She is a small, brown goat, and she wanted to come with me. To
be honest, I sort of wanted her to come with me, too. There was something so
endearing and healing about her warm interest in my being. The week had been so
hard. Some of my relatives are tough to be around. I listened to and
experienced way too much judgment and criticism for my own comfort. It left me
feeling ragged and alone. But in Dixie’s unabashed desire to be with me, I felt
fully appreciated. This guileless little being, her affection, her warm and
willing eyes, they soothed the hot sense of disapproval I had felt radiating at
me all through the week.
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| Dave, our 1st Lieutenant, and sweet Dixie |
I’m not sure how discerning Dixie is. It may be that every
human who enters that yard has to remove a friendly goat from their passenger
seat, but for me, in that moment, it helped me to feel more like me. For the first time that day, I
laughed. I giggled. I talked to Dixie. I loved her. And with that love, with
that laughter, I began to feel a bit more like myself, a bit less traumatized,
a bit less lost and alone in a wilderness of thorns. It was like I had wandered
off the internal path I follow, the quiet and lovely path that keeps me
grounded, happy, and whole, and Dixie turned up to show me the way back.
Eventually, we were able to separate ourselves and I left Dixie in the care of
the neighbor children, and drove off, a bit late, for the memorial gathering.
The memorial gathering was a casual affair. A time for
friends and family simply to gather. No speeches or eulogies, just food and
drink and a couple of hundred people who knew my uncle, gathering in the
sanctuary-like yard of some dear friends who live on Cedar Swamp in East
Orland. Don’t let the word “swamp” fool you. It’s truly beautiful there, back
in the woods. It’s all trees and birds and flowers; deer and happy chickens and
raised beds full of green and growing things. There is a constant and gentle
trickling of water from the artesian well, and a sequestered sort of openness
that allows one to feel both safely ensconced and utterly free all at the same
time.
After leaving Dixie, Peter and I drove directly toward the
memorial. But just before the last turn, we came upon an accident. We were in
Orland, so of course I stopped to offer assistance. There were no emergency
vehicles on site, just a large group of dazed and miserable looking people—about
half of whom I was related to--and two SUVs looking worse-for-wear on the side
of the road. I soon discovered that one of the smashed vehicles had been driven
by Uncle David and that several of my younger cousins and my 11-year-old niece
were passengers. The girls were very shaken up and had already been picked up
and driven back to the memorial by other family members, as everyone else involved
waited for help. Thankfully, no one was seriously injured; but both cars were now
undrivable, and my uncle, my cousin, and my aunt’s husband were in limbo,
standing in the heat next to a smashed up rental car, looking for all the world
exactly like what they were—tired, sad, shocked, stranded travelers.
Orland was never dispatched to the scene—I’m not sure why--but
nevertheless, in this moment of crisis, two of my firefighters materialized
anyway and gave assistance with grace, calm, and the deep and generous kindness
I truly love them for.
First-on-scene was Dustin Bowden, a young man who lives
nearby and heard about the accident from his grandmother. This is how we roll
in rural Maine. Your grandmother drives past an accident and gives you a call
and you are a volunteer firefighter, so you go out looking for it. Dustin and I secured the
scene, called for an ambulance, and made sure the sheriff was notified.
Soon, our second captain, Casey Soper arrived. I was so
happy to see him. He’s tall and deeply tan from long days of lobster fishing,
and he scooped me into a bear hug. Serving with Casey is like having a big—very
big—younger brother who knows when to crack a joke, when to play wrestle, and
when to take command of a scene. The second time I met him, we were in a fire
truck—he was driving—and he told me he would trust me with his life, and that
there are not a lot of people he feels that way about. I have endeavored ever
since to be worthy of this trust.
Between the three of us, we were able to expedite the tow
truck for both cars and get my family on their way with a blessed efficiency. Just
to provide some perspective: The last time we (the OFD) were at an accident scene
with an out-of-state driver in a rental car with no AAA (just like my Uncle
David), it took four hours to clear the scene and the chief wound up driving the
family to Trenton to get another car. But this time, using my AAA card and
Casey's inside knowledge (one of his many talents is tow-truck driving),
we were able get this wrecker call taken care of in a fraction of the time it
would have taken, had Casey and I not been there. I was overjoyed at our useful
and helpful connections to one another, and within our community, and that
whatever fortuitous forces were at play that day had brought the exact right
people to that scene to be of service to my family.
I emerged from the incident grateful, as ever, for the
members of the OFD, for my friends and family here in this small town, and for
the very quick response and congenial nature of the deputy sheriff on scene.
Even though I was an hour and a half late to the memorial, and
a lot of people had left by the time I got there, the silver lining in that
particular terrible cloud is that--as it turns out--the perfect combination of
things to draw me out of weak-kneed, weepy inconsolability is a very friendly
goat, followed by first-response. The accident—particularly since it involved
my family—meant that I switched from upset-and-grieving into calm-competent-firefighter.
Nothing in the world existed in those moments except the roadside problem at
hand and the tools I had at my disposal to fix it. When everything depends on
my presence of mind, nothing is present in my mind except my compassion, my
instincts, and my training.
When people say, “Maine, the way life should be,” I don’t
think about mountains or rocky coasts or lobster that is cheaper by the pound
than hot dogs, I think about Dustin Bowden, jumping in his car to come and help
because his grandmother saw an accident near the blueberry factory; I think
about Casey showing up and giving me a hug after a long, hard day of working on
a lobster boat and taking out his battered phone and saying, “Yes,” when I
asked if he could help me get a AAA tow truck there quickly; I think about the
scraggly wrecker drivers who didn’t know me, but when I climbed up to the cab
and explained I was a friend of Dave’s—and Dixie’s—they smiled (they know them both well) and said yes,
they’d tow my uncle’s vehicle first, so that he could get to the memorial; I think
about those hundreds of people who came to East Orland to say goodbye to my
uncle, people who had known him when they were children, having adventures with
the Gangs of Bucksport; I think about how those were the days; and I think
about the heavy, black pager I wear on my hip at all times, even when dressed
for a funeral, and the kindness and competency it always summons when people
need it most.
Once the drivers and passengers had all refused medical
transport; once the sheriff had released the scene; once my uncle David’s
rented Expedition was on the way to Dave’s, I thanked Dustin and Casey, and I
climbed back into my little Ford Focus, stuffed with yoga supplies, and
firefighting gear, and two bouquets of flowers from my garden for the memorial.
"There's no crying in first response," I joked to
Peter, once we were both safely back in the car.
"This car smells like goat," he said.
And we were on our way.
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| Me and Dustin taking a break at a long, sweltering structure fire in Surry. |
