WHEN I WAS a kid, my heroes were cowboys. I had the hat, the plastic six-shooters and a rope for imaginary cows. My little brother usually wanted to be the bad guy; a 5 year old Black Bart pretending to spit tobacco. Sometimes I got to be Bart.
We were hero and bad guy until the bully next door stole our guns and rope. I tried to make my Dad into a hero, but he was rarely home. My Mom used to sit in the corner of the couch and sip her drink. Sometimes, I ‘d see her cry.
One winter day, my dog, Patrick, wandered out onto the ice covering the lake beside our house. Dad was home for a change and called the fire department. A bunch of firemen walked out as far as they could safely go, but they couldn’t reach the dog. When it was over and Patrick had fallen through the ice, a dozen men traipsed into the house. Dad got busy serving them all drinks while Mom made sandwiches.
They were having a party and I was crying my eyes out, alone on the freezing front porch. After a while, a big blond fireman came out. He didn’t say anything; just handed me a white linen handkerchief and wrapped his warm coat around me. When I’d wiped my face and blown my nose, he put his huge hand gently on my back.
He said, “I know this is a bad day for you Suzie, but remember that death is just another part of life. Maybe Patrick wanted to go to heaven and ask God if he could come back as a person. Maybe God graduated him from dog life into something better. Maybe the love you gave him helped him on his way.”
He smiled down at me. When I tried to give him back his handkerchief, he told me to keep it. I washed it, wrote Patrick’s name in the center and folded it safely away between the pages of my bible.
For years that fireman was my hero. He’d given me a way to accept death, and made God an okay guy in my seven-year-old world.
Mom and Dad went through a messy divorce. She drank gallons of gin and tonic while he screwed around with any woman who would have him. Mom’s last straw was when Dad hit on the babysitter. She moved us across the country to live with my grandparents.
I grew into a tall, skinny and sickly, adolescent. My feet were too big, my nose too long, and I hunched my shoulders.
I met my second hero at the YMCA swimming classes. Archie McKinnon, swimming teacher and the coach of the swim team, showed me how to create a life that I wanted. I was an adequate swimmer, because my Mom had taught me to swim, being that we’d lived by a lake and all. My third time there, Archie transferred me to the advanced class.
With a twinkle in his bright blue eyes, he said, “Suzie, you could be a champion if you’re willing to work hard enough.”
At first, I had trouble swimming the length of the 50 yard pool. Archie kept encouraging me and pushing me on. I went on the bus after school three times a week. After two months I could swim 2 lengths of the pool, after three, 4 lengths. It was upward from there. I gained weight and began to look like a normal healthy young girl. Due entirely to Archie’s pep talks, I got strong enough to become a member of the swim team and compete in swim meets.
He used to say, “God helps them who help themselves. Get moving!”
Or another one, “Don’t you dare give up on yourself until I give up on you!” He never did give up on any of us.
I learned how to swim faster when my body said quit. I learned to believe in myself and my dreams. I learned that I was the one who pretty much controlled my life; all thanks to Archie McKinnon.
Today, I look for heroes and happy endings; like the single Mom whose husband beat her until her father chased the bum away with a shotgun. She worked in an office, and struggled to raise two kids on her own for years. Then she married the boss and is now living the happily-ever-after part.
I met the woman whose doctors told her she would die from her lung disease within a year. She studied alternative medicine and cured herself. That was 30 years ago. She’s a bright, energetic 85-year-old writer today.
There are brave kids in the military hefting 50 pound packs up mountains in Afghanistan or patroling the streets in Iraq in 120 degree heat; teachers who buy supplies with their own money, doctors who actually call to check on patients after hours, police officers who give a damn about our neighborhoods, veterinarians who supply free medicine to people who can’t afford it for their animals, successful authors, like John Locke, who take time to encourage budding writers, and neighbors helping neighbors just because they’re there.
All the above are people who care in spite of all the reasons they’ve been given to turn their backs…the heroes among us who reach for the happy endings. I salute them all.
They are the ones who inspire me. They are the people who gave me a backdrop on which to paint my character, the ghost, Charles Sutton. They are the healers in this world, bringing sunlight through clouds of misfortune.
I’ve put this page up for us to inspire each other by talking about heroes. Feel free to c0ntact me: sorcererandme@gmail.com
THE SORCERER’S CONFESSION, is the 1st book in the series where Charles Sutton, ghost, tells his story, 99c. www.smashwords.com/books/view/62266 Also on Kindle.
THE SORCERER’S PROMISE, the 2nd book in the series, where Charles Sutton, ghost, comes back into the life of Katherine Elliot, California mystery writer, is available for 99c at http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/69745 and also on Kindle.
