Romancing the Thrill Quill: A Canadian Tribute to 9/11

Romancing the Thrill Quill: A Canadian Tribute to 9/11: We will all remember that terrible day. No matter where you were, in the U.S. or Canada or anywhere in the world, it impacted all of us. ...

Seven Firemen Angels

I don't even know if this is any good, but I've posted it just about every 9/11 since 2006, anyway. I'm no lyricist ... and come to think of it, I'm not sure I care if it's any good.


Clearly, September 11 is a date that will resonate for Americans for many decades to come, and will no doubt be the December 7, 1941 of our generation. Just as clearly, a lot of ink will be drained in a continuing quest to pay tribute to those who died that day, both rescuers and civilians in all four locations.
On September 11, 2002, a song started running through my head, and I couldn't get rid of it. I hadn't heard "Seven Spanish Angels" for years, but it was there as plainly as if Willie Nelson was walking alongside me, belting it out. It drove me nuts. Then, weeks later, as I was singing along (in private), I suddenly heard myself say,
"There were seven firemen angels . . ."
And it clicked.
Within an hour I had the entire chorus worked out, and I thought it wasn't half bad considering I'm no song writer. You can argue that it should be "firefighter", and you can also ask, quite reasonably, "why seven?" I don't know. Why not? I guess songwriters are allowed to take a certain amount poetic license.
Then I put the whole thing aside and tried to forget it. Fat chance. It was like a signal was being beamed directly into my brain, and I finally realized I couldn't shut it off until I wrote the whole song -- divine inspiration or incipient insanity, take your pick.
So I took the song, which was written by Eddie Setson and Troy Seals in 1985, and put my own words to it. Now it's finished, and I present it to you because I felt I had to show it to someone. As I said, I'm no songwriter, but it wasn't going to leave me alone until I finished it. Besides, as they say about homemade gifts, isn't it the thought that counts? Here's a web link to the original lyrics, as sung by Willie Nelson and Ray Charles: http://www.homestead.com/deesongs/spanishangels.html
 I hope you'll take it in the spirit in which it's intended:

He looked down into the fires,
and tears fell at the sight.
He saw four funeral pyres
that couldn't be made right.

Three thousand people dying,
and they didn't know what for.
Now He saw his children crying,
as their nation went to war.

There were seven firemen Angels
who were dispatched by the Son.
They were coming for the others
who had gone on their last run.

When the buildings fell,
and the smoke cleared
there was thunder from the Throne.
And seven firemen Angels
took the other Angels home.

They reached down and took the badges
that lay on the smoldering ground.
There were cop and medic patches
from the victims all around.

But the bodies there were hollow
as the Angels passed that way.
for they called out, "spirits, follow"
and took them home that day.

There were seven medic Angels
where the buildings had stood once.
They were coming for the others
who had made their last response.

When the buildings fell,
and the smoke cleared
there was thunder from the Throne,
and seven medic Angels
took the other Angels home.

The sons and wives and daughters
cried "how could such a thing be?"
And from high above the Lord replied,
"It's the price of being free."

"For the world is full of people,
who would do such things today
but you can't give in to evil
so God bless the U.S.A."

There were seven police Angels
who answered that last call.
they were crying for the others,
as they watched their comrades fall.

When the buildings fell,
and the smoke cleared
there was thunder from the Throne,
and seven police Angels
took the other Angels home.

Speak of the Devil: What Does One Do With Thirty Million Dollars Worth...

Speak of the Devil: What Does One Do With Thirty Million Dollars Worth...: Recently in the news there was something of an odd story about the theft of a significant quantity of maple syrup.  I thought I would play a...

Five Characters in Search of an Author

Today five characters from Storm Chaser and Storm Chaser Shorts answer questions, with various degrees of enthusiasm. (You can guess how Chance feels about it.) Thanks to William Kendall, who’s hosting me on his blog, “Speak of the Devil”:

http://williamkendallbooks.blogspot.ca/2012/09/storm-chaser-five-characters-in-search.html?goback=.gde_3995683_member_160170121


“Beth: I want to be a photographer. Or maybe a model. Or a firefighter. Or a fire photographer who models on the side. Or a jockey.”

Annette Gendler: On Having Your Own Library

Annette Gendler: On Having Your Own Library: When my grandparents were expelled from their hometown in Czechoslovakia after World War II, they lost their house and all their possessions...

Mary Sue and the Fanfiction of Doom

The use (and misuse) of Mary Sues and self-inserts is the subject of my blog tour post today . Thanks to author Jana Denardo, who’s hosting me over at LiveJournal:

http://jana-denardo.livejournal.com/86620.html?view=350300#t350300

“I became a writer at an unfortunately young age, and like many kids it was all about me.”.

Fact checking claims on jobs, medicare

NBC fact checks Dem jobs, Medicare claims:

http://nbcpolitics.nbcnews.com/_news/2012/09/05/13690187-dems-twist-jobs-numbers-and-gop-medicare-ideas?lite

That Was One Giant Man, Taking That Step

SLIGHTLY OFF THE MARK

 

            “I’m gonna go up there someday.” The young man crouched in his parents’ backyard, squinting into the eyepiece of a telescope.

            His mother followed his gaze, up to the bright globe hovering over their back yard. “To the Moon?”

            “Sure. It’s 1962, Ma -- they’re sending up rockets and such. And I’m a pilot -- who’d be better for flying that far than a pilot?”

            She shook her head, still looking toward the Moon, her mouth downturned. “As if your life wasn’t dangerous enough, you want to go out into space. Sometimes I don’t think we raised you with a lick of sense.”

            He grinned, and enveloped his mother in a hug. Neither was much of a talker, but they understood each other.  “I’ll bring you back a Moon rock. Or cheese.”

            “Just bring me back yourself.” She turned away from the gray orb, back toward the comforts of her home and the things she knew and understood. How things had changed since her son was born: World Wars, Cold Wars, rockets into space, that crazy interstate highway idea. And her little boy flying around in jet fighters, fending off the Red Menace.

            “That’s gotta be the first step, Ma. You’ve seen the movies -- we’re destined to go out into space, someday, explore the stars. We’re headed up a ladder, and the Moon is the first rung.”

            “Well.” At the door she turned back, to see her son standing there in his uniform, still staring up. Maybe he’d be safer in a spacesuit, after all. “If you’re going to do all that, you need to keep your strength up. You get in here and eat your supper before it gets cold, Neil Armstrong.”

            Neil’s smile seemed to say that no matter what he accomplished, his mother would always be his mother.

#

            I wrote that for a writer’s group a few years ago, trying to capture what it must have been like for a young man about to push the edge of technology, to become a true pioneer. I don’t know if any moment like that ever happened (the real Armstrong was already married at that point), but if so, it would have happened just a couple of hours drive from where I grew up, and from where I marveled at his accomplishments as a kid.

            1962 was the year I was born: the year Neil Armstrong’s daughter died of pneumonia, the year Armstrong was chosen as a pilot for a military space plane, and the year he sent in his application to be one of the “New Nine” NASA astronauts.

            I was four years old when Armstrong went up on Gemini 8, six when he was almost killed while flying a lunar lander simulator. Two days after my seventh birthday Apollo 11 lifted off, and my earliest memory is staring at the grainy black and white TV footage as Neil Armstrong becoming the first human being to step foot on our Moon.

            Like many kids of the time, I was all about space exploration. I had a full Apollo rocket assembly (a toy with a capsule that would pop off and fly into the air); a plastic lunar lander; models of, among other things, a Soviet Soyuz capsule and assorted other rockets and spaceships; and, of course, astronaut action figures. Vietnam, Nixonian politics, and the Cold War could have been in another universe for all I cared, but I inhaled any information I could get about space exploration.

            Naturally I wanted to be an astronaut myself, but it turns out they have to be good with math.

            I’m not sure it’s possible to overstate the impact the first Moon landing had on the world. 450 million radio listeners heard Neil Armstrong proclaim he’d just made a giant leap for mankind. 93% of American households with TVs tuned in to the mission, making it the most watched program ever at the time.

The President was waiting to greet them personally when they splashed down. (I remember my teacher dragging a portable TV into our classroom so we could watch a splashdown live, although I don’t recall if it was Apollo 11 or a different flight.) The astronauts rode in ticker tape parades, were on stamps and coins, and got a visit with the Queen of England.

            So when I say Neil Armstrong was a Big Deal, understand that I’m not doing that over-exaggeration thing that’s become far too common with the most minor celebrities. And when I say Neil Armstrong was a hero, realize just how high the stakes were: In today’s risk-averse world, the whole thing never would have happened.

            There was every reason to believe Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin, and maybe even command module pilot Michael Collins, would never see Earth again. It was a huge technological challenge, and the planners were rushed by the fact that it was also a race. (A Soviet probe malfunctioned and crashed on the Moon just after Armstrong and Aldrin finished the first Moon walk.) A speech had been prepared for President Nixon to give if the Apollo 11 crew ended up stranded.

            When the astronauts got ready to leave, they discovered the switch that would arm the one and only main engine for liftoff had broken off. They used a felt-tip pen to replace it. Only the pen kept them from dying on the Moon.

            So, yeah. I’m a bit gutted by his death, as my British friends would say. Neil Armstrong was my first real-life hero. I hadn’t had many heroes at all, to that point: Mr. Spock of Star Trek, maybe, and assorted characters from TV shows and comic books. But Armstrong was real. A flesh and blood daredevil, a man who grabbed death by the hood and kicked its butt.

            He didn’t seek fame, didn’t get stupid with bling or childish behavior, didn’t lever his celebrity for personal gain. By all accounts he was brave and humble; a risk taker, but not obnoxious about it; a pioneer, but aware he was only human.

            Neil Armstrong was more than a hero: He was the kind of man they just don’t seem to make anymore. Just as the universe became bigger and more accessible with him, the world seems a smaller, duller place without him. Rest in peace, Neil. Once more you go into unknown territory – may your engines always fire, and your compass always be true.

Bookcase, assemble

If there's one thing I learned today, it's that the biggest challenge that will ever face a relationship is assembling furniture together. This is especially true when the woman is feeling sickly and the man just had a tooth drilled.

How I Spent My Summer Medication

SLIGHTLY OFF THE MARK

            Note: All of the events recorded here really happened, as currently being vetted by the Guinness Book of World Records (“worst vacation ever”); however, the order and exact date have been changed, due to author laziness in not recording them.

            Day One: Took three full weeks of vacation this summer! I need it: The only job that sees more horror than an emergency dispatcher is Joe Biden’s press secretary.

            Day Two: Stopped at the doctor’s office to double check on the abdominal pain I’ve been having for the last three months. What? I’m a guy.

            Day Two, evening: What the heck’s diverticulitis? Well, a little bottle of antibiotics won’t interfere with my vacation. The doc wants me to get a colonoscopy, so I study up on the procedure with Dave Barry’s humor column and Jeff Foxworthy’s standup routine.

Maybe living with the pain’s not so bad.

            Day Three: Emily’s endometriosis seems to be acting up, although the pain isn’t in the same place as before. I make jokes about us both having abdominal pain, and conditions that end with “is”. It’s a competition! She’s also been coughing since she started taking allergy medicine. There’s irony.

            Day Four: Chiropractor appointments for both of us. It’s nice to do things as a couple. Later we sit on the couch with ice packs as a couple and watch Star Trek: The Motion Picture. Great musical score, but the pace puts us to sleep. We’ll start our real vacation tomorrow.

            Day Five: Emily gives up several pints of various fluids to the doctor, while I joke that my work’s clinic has become a daily destination. Later we go to the drive-in movies, but bellyaches bother us both. At least we didn’t have to sit through an odd numbered Star Trek movie.

            Day Six: Emily hurts too much to go camping. That’s very bad. My ex-Scout wife lives to do outdoorsy stuff, but we can only manage to build a backyard fire pit out of old chimney bricks. One shows an indentation from my head.

            Day Seven: We spend Sunday talking about what we should be doing on our vacation.

Day Eight: The OB/GYN pokes and prods – Emily, not me – with an increasing look of concern. He should be concerned: If he causes her much more pain she’s going to send him to a plastic surgeon. He makes sure we’re sitting down before declaring she may have a hernia.

            WTF? For you old timers, that means “huh?”

            Day Nine: Emily’s pre-scheduled appointment with a dental surgeon is entirely unconnected to all the rest … we assume. He explains that her one remaining wisdom tooth is buried deeper than a congressman’s soul and is cuddling with a major nerve, and if it isn’t bothering her we should probably just leave it alone. We paid $99 for this suggestion of inactivity. On the brighter side, she has two cavities.

            Day Ten: Apparently I’m dehydrated, because the nurse blows two of my veins – a phrase I find disconcerting. I almost make a joke about her optometrist, but she’s still aiming a needle at my arm. For the rest of vacation I’ll carry a bruise the approximate shape, color, and size of the Mars rover crater.

            Day Eleven: Emily’s cavities get drilled, I have a routine cleaning. The family that stays together … what do you mean, I have a filling, too? And just one? She “wins”.

            Later that day I stop eating. It’s not my idea: Apparently a colonoscopy involves two days of preparation for a twenty minute procedure.

            Day Twelve: I take six doses of laxative. Emily mixes Gatorade and another, powdered laxative into a fifty-five gallon drum, which I have to drink in six ounce increments over the space of three hours. Then I can sleep until my appointment the next day. Hah. There’ll be no sleep tonight.

            Day Thirteen: I’ve never worn one of those hospital gowns before. They’re flimsy, impossible to figure out, don’t cover enough, and are probably expensive, so I promptly dub mine “Obamacover”. Having had much experience with medical facilities, I prefer the other side of the cot.

            I sleep through the procedure, including Emily dressing me and my daughter driving me home. Easiest day of the week. The doctor has removed a polyp near the site of my diverticulosis, a sentence I refuse to examine more closely.

            Day Fourteen: We’re exhausted. We’ve done nothing, gone nowhere, and accomplished nothing, but we’re exhausted.

Day Fifteen: It’s now Emily’s turn to fast. She’s to have a CAT scan, which prompts all sorts of feline related jokes. It’s just a matter of time before she clobbers me, but at least the hospital already has my information.

Day Sixteen: Emily’s chest hurts. Huh. It’s where she had some odd pain as a child, only this time I’m determined someone will figure out what it is.

Day Seventeen: We meet with the surgeon, who explains he will not be operating because, according to Emily’s CAT scan, she has absolutely no problems in her abdomen or pelvis. We’re back to square one. It’s like playing Monopoly for two weeks, only to land on a Chance card that tells you to start over again from scratch.

Day Eighteen: I try to think of some last minute fun thing to do, but it hurts Emily to ride in the car and I think I’m getting a sinus infection … and I’m having some after-effects from the colonoscopy. We’re having a Staycation.

Day Nineteen: Another poking and prodding session, by an old doctor who seems interested in actually finding out what’s wrong. He thinks Emily has an injury to the cartilage around her sternum – thus the chest pain – probably made worse again by her recent coughing. It’s called Tietze’s syndrome. No, seriously. Recovery is a slow process: My wife, who normally loves nothing more than to get out into the wilderness all summer, is pretty much stuck at home. I offer to let her hit me, but she declines. Maybe I’ll start making puns again until she unleashes some stress-relieving injury.

Day Twenty: We schedule another appointment with the girl parts doctor about her abdomen. I’m going to threaten him, or bride him. Probably threaten, as we’ve plowed through our health savings account for the year.

Day Twenty-one: I insist to Emily that tomorrow we’re going to go out and do something fun and vacation-like. She points out that I have to go back to work tonight.

After all those needles, it’s the first time in three weeks that I cry.