Back. Back in Black

All good things must come to an end. Some good things are tragically removed from our lives. My return to the world was a bit of both.

As I have previously stated, the Sierra Nevada is a spiritual home for me. The majestic beauty of the granite peaks, the crystal blue clarity of the water and the lack of telecommunication make the area a refuge from the chaos of life.

Due to our itinerary, we were upon occasion, able to occasionally receive text messages. Most of the time, I ignored the messages. However, one series of messages was so horrific that they could not be ignored. A colleague of mine, one from a neighboring agency, lost his teen-aged daughter to a freak accident.

Although this colleague and I are not close, we have worked together on several projects over the years. Our wives know each other well, having worked together many years ago. A nicer couple you will never meet. Out of respect to my colleague and his wife and the enormity of their loss, I decided to end our trip early so that I could accompany The Saint to the funeral.

The schedule dictated that we break camp and depart at daybreak, then make the long trek from my mountain refuge to the sweltering heat of the desert. The trip home was without event, and we arrived home in time for me to park the camper, clean-up, don my Class-A, then attend the services.

Due to professional and social contacts, we knew many people that were attending the service. A close friend had never seen my Class-A uniform and commented on how nice it looked and how we should wear them more often.

She was unprepared for my response. After acknowledging her compliment, I told her that I never want to wear it again and that I wish I could throw it away.

At my current career phase, dragging the uniform from the closet, dusting it off and putting it on means that someone has suffered a loss, one that has changed lives. Changes usually not for the better.  It is a process which I hate, the cruelty of which challenges my understanding of the world that was created for us.  

My Class-A uniform has evolved into a symbol, one of loss and grief. I realize that this is my issue, although I think that others may share this perception. I realize that as I get older, the need to wear it will arise more often. Hopefully my disdain will subside as my maturity increases.

Maybe my discomfort has more to do with my own mortality on some subconscious level. I believe that it has more to do with watching others suffer and with my own sense of loss. It is likely a combination of all three.

Regardless, my colleague and his family are suffering greatly. I can do nothing for them, other than to offer my condolences and support. I can't imagine their sense of loss.

Thanks for reading,
Schmoe