Friday, Jul 4, 2008
In these parts, you meet your neighbors one crisis at a time.
Nov 11, 1999 | A while back in these parts, a man was accused of molesting a child. One day after he had been charged, he was sitting in his truck when he was approached by the child's mother. She asked him to extend his hand. He did, and she quoted him some scripture: "If thy hand offend thee, cut it off," she said. Then she reached into her purse, drew out a pistol and blew a slug through his palm.
Several years later, I was at the wheel of the local ambulance, racing to a hospital some 14 miles away. The man in back was having seizures, maybe a heart attack. His wife was in the passenger seat beside me, clutching her purse and a hefty, well-worn Bible. I was trying to focus on the road, and she kept cursing and praying and pestering me to join in.
Back at the house, she'd been hysterical, screaming and grabbing at her husband. One of the emergency medical technicians had pulled her aside. If you can't contain yourself, you can't ride with us, he'd said. It sounds cold, but it is dangerous and irresponsible to let a frantic family member loose in a speeding ambulance. Now she was getting agitated again. "Ma'am," I said sternly, over the siren, "you promised. You have got to let me drive."
She composed herself, hugging her purse, knuckles white over her Bible. We delivered her husband to the hospital and settled her in the waiting room. On the way home, the assistant chief looked at me. "You know who that was, don't you?" "No," I replied. "That's the vigilante woman, the one who shot the guy in the hand. You know she never goes anywhere without her pistol in that purse."
I recalled the tone I had taken with her, and gave a little shudder.
Earlier this year, I was at my desk writing when the fire chief knocked at my door: "You busy?" I asked what he needed. "Remember that guy you took care of last night?" I did. We had been called to an outlying tavern in the wee hours. A man had been making trouble in the bar, and when the police finally arrested him, he began complaining of chest pains. When I tried to take his vital signs and give him oxygen, he was cranky and recalcitrant, so I adopted my stern voice and lectured him into compliance.
The chief told me the man was holed up in a trailer with a shotgun and a pistol, shooting at people. "The county SWAT team has got him surrounded," said the chief. "They're gonna try to take him in about half an hour. They want us to come stand by with the ambulance."
I recalled the tone I had taken with the man the night before, and reprised the little shudder.
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From so-called "reality programming" to shows like "ER" and "Third Watch" and movies like "Bringing Out the Dead," big-city rescue services get most of the attention, and they earn it. Their call volume is far higher, their drama more sustained. But when it comes to surreal rescue, it's tough to beat rural service. For example, last winter a fisherman collapsed and died on the ice. He must have been catching fish pretty regular because when the ambulance crew arrived, another fisherman was standing over the body with his line down the hole previously manned by the deceased. Strange things happen in the city, but out here, deep in the trees or on a plain of white ice, the strangeness presents itself in tableau.
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