I like Ben Franklin’s vibe, whether he coined the phrase or not; he did publish the adage in “Poor Richard’s Almanac”: “Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.”
I live by that, except for the wealthy part. But I can see the correlation without squinting.
I more enjoy his lesser-known “Write injuries in dust, benefits in marble.”
You can apply that to a lot of situations.
During my dream sequence, last night, I woke terrified that the chain I’d been using to secure an implement on a trailer was too short. For those brief and foggy moments before realizing that I was being blinded by the bright moon streaming through my window, flat on my back in bed, I determined that there was no trailer or short chain. Still, I was thankful for the dream, or at least the subject matter. The subject matter in my dreams has evolved, and I think that’s good.
Every job has downsides, but I think that first responders’ dreams, of course, a soldier, airman, marine, or sailor, too, have specific negatives intertwined within.
Mine evolved over the course of my career, some terrifying but not truly relevant to the situations I was cast into.
Every cop and ex-cop has the foggy and terrifying shooting dream. The general synopsis is that you, or someone else, is under attack when you are required to use deadly force. However, the projectiles either don’t come out of your duty weapon, or they do, and fall far short of stopping the threat. There are more detailed descriptions in my head, some from dreams, but when you overshare, people tend to be put off by the detail.
I get it.
These dreams are often shared and broken down for content in cop-centric conversations, even from cops who have never, nor will ever, use their duty weapon in defense of self and others.
Believe it or not, no matter what you hear, every cop who has never had to utilize their service weapon in the line of duty walks away from the career elated that they and others were spared.
I was entirely pleased when I walked out of that building, and for a lot more reasons than just that.
In coming close to getting to that point a few times, I always drove home after feeling hopeful that it would be the last time; an inoculation, maybe, against ever having to be put in the situation again.
There are better programs in place for first responders now, and it seems the new generations want to talk about it after. There are better debriefings. Within the ranks of first responders are first responders for first responders.
I discussed it with my son after an incident requiring his involvement. He indicated, in passing, that he was contacted by peer support very soon after, several times—just checking in on him.
I told him that was good, because in my formative years, that was not the case.
“Learn to appreciate that,” I said. “Talk to them, even if you think they are doing it simply for protocol. Like chicken soup, it can’t hurt.”
He agreed. That’s all I wanted from him.
The problem with an offspring joining the ranks in their parents’ service is that they hear a lot, see a lot, long before they should. They become jaded about societal ills far too soon, because it’s often presented at the dinner table in vague conversation about everyone’s day.
How my dream from last night led me to these thoughts, and this penning mystifies even me, the writer.
But I went back to sleep once I realized that there was no need to be concerned about the short chain because the trailer wasn’t there. And here I was safe and sound, wrapped in clean blue sheets with the moon moving away from my window, adding some darkness to the mix.
Upon waking up at a little past four, I shone my flashlight out the back sliding glass door, checking the area for intruders who might cause Ellie’s comfort break to be mayhem. You know, skunks, porcupines, etc. I was not looking for two-legged interlopers.
In the far back, among the ferns, I caught the shine of four eyeballs, each set at a different height. I walked across the dew-covered grass, vocally warning Ellie to stay inside so I could make sure that the lower set of eyes didn’t belong to another canine of the wilder variety. They didn’t. It was a doe and her offspring, just perusing beyond the tree line.
I spoke to them softly, apologizing, really, for getting ready to send out the black dog who would surely be ready to bark and whine, wrecking their otherwise wonderful morning in the forest.
They both turned and walked away, completely comfortable with my presence, but clearly not wanting to come any closer.
I’ll probably dream about that at some juncture, and I look forward to it.
As a sworn early riser and distant past first responder, I’m more thankful than ever that dust is blown away to settle elsewhere, and marble is available for all of us to use as a tablet.
Just my thoughts.
Oh, and Ellie still barked at the deer; some things don’t change.
From the Jagged Edge of America, I wish you all a pleasant Monday.
TC
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