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HeroicStories #745: Artist in Residence
Reaching more than 40,000 subscribers in 118 countries, this is...
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HeroicStories #745: 7 March 2008 www.HeroicStories.com
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Artist in Residence Story Editor:
by David McLaughlan Joyce Schowalter
Ayrshire, Scotland
Once upon another life I worked on the building of an oil rig. Three
steel tanks, each three hundred foot tall and fifty feet wide, would be
joined by a latticework of pipes. The living accommodation platform
would go on top and the tanks would eventually be sunk in the icy waters
of the North Sea.
For most of the year the sun rose and set while I was at work. We worked
twelve-hour shifts in a bleak industrial landscape. The work was hard,
the men were harder. Often coming home at the end of the day it was a
struggle to find myself again, to remember I was a young husband and a
new father. The job paid the bills, but it fairly scoured the soul.
I was part of a team of four junior engineers. Mostly we were gophers
and holders for the big boys. As part of our tool kits we had magnetic
clamps (two square magnets on an aluminium strip handle, like big
brackets) and paint pens (like giant tooth paste tubes full of paint,
with a ball-point on the end so you could write technical data on the
metal).
When we weren't needed for anything, or when the weather was too foul,
we retired to our "office". One of my workmates, Wullie, would come into
the porta-cabin we inhabited on his tea break.
He would open the door of his metal locker and pull a battered plastic
chair behind it. Still in his waterproofs and wearing his safety helmet
and boots Wullie would take out a piece of canvas. Using the magnetic
clamps he would fix his canvas to inside of his locker door.
Until they got used to him folk would give Wullie some strange looks and
make less than charitable comments. Wullie's response was always a smile
and a kind word.
Using a piece of scrap iron as a palate Wullie would start mixing the
paint from the different coloured paint pens. Then, for the ten minutes
he had left, he would take paint brushes from his locker, and lose
himself in his painting. While his workmates boasted about their sexual
conquests or how much they'd drank at the weekend, Wullie created works
of art. As we were on the Atlantic coast, with the Western Isles nearby,
he painted seascapes.
Why do I remember this? Because I envied Wullie and, in a way he got me
through the whole experience. I never saw him again after the rig was
built, but twenty-some years later I still think of him with admiration.
He taught me there was beauty everywhere.
There never was a bleaker place than that construction site, but Wullie
managed to find beauty in it. He found it by making it.
The author's web site is: http://www.myspace.com/WayfarersTales
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David in the United Kingdom replied to our last story about a recent
encounter between two Marines who served in the Vietnam War at the same
time. David: "Wow! This story made the hairs on my head stand up. And
I'm bald so that took some doing! These guys are heroes -- and so might
the drunk sitting next to you be. Point taken. Thanks for that."
Rick in the USA adds: "The story about the Navy Corpsman and the Marine
at the VA Hospital set up a firestorm of emotions in me. I too was a
Navy Corpsman at Danang and worked Receiving I in 1967-1968, through the
Tet offensive early in 1968. I can tell you that the acknowledgement of
the medical services the author tried to provide to other human beings
in distress means a great deal. A simple, and heartfelt, 'Thank you' can
make a month, not just a day. Too often people assume that medical
personnel do not suffer from after effects of combat, especially if they
serve in a hospital. That is not true. Of course not all who serve
suffer equally, but it is well documented that medical personnel have a
very high incidence of PTSD as a result of what they must see and do
every day."
Indeed, Rick, and moreover, many people presume that you have to be in a
war or disaster to acquire PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder). It's
true that war creates a lot of PTSD, as evidenced by the statistics that
as many as 30 percent of returning veterans from the Iraq and
Afghanistan wars have active PTSD on return.
In addition, the latest research suggests that those who live with, or
work with, adults or children who have PTSD acquire a type of
"secondary" or "tertiary" PTSD. In other words, those other individuals
also find their stress levels rising to a point that they "tip" into a
state of having actual PTSD. We as a society are barely beginning to
grapple with the realities of PTSD, and what, exactly, living with the
aftermath of trauma truly is for those around us. If you have thoughts
or experience with PTSD, let us know, via the Comments address below.
Mary in Michigan: "Wow. Many HeroicStories issues bring tears and some
bring something deeper and more profound. This was one of the most
profound I've read. That Marine accepted the loss of his eye. Then he
notes that often people who have given everything they have can be found
anywhere; often a place that highlights how little they have left. These
Marines illustrate that the giving done by service men and women goes on
long after the giving is visible. Our culture does a very poor job of
letting service people know how much we appreciate their giving. Thanks
to this writer for letting us see a touch of the quiet dignity and
acceptance military people live with."
John in Maryland replied to another reader's comment on, "Take A Moment"
(#743) (on our archives, here:
http://www.HeroicStories.com/archives.html ). John: "The comment of
Bonnie in Minnesota brings to mind one of my father's comments on
driving. Dad was an outside salesman who drove five or six hundred miles
a week. He said, 'Always let a reasonable number of people in line ahead
of you. Everybody's work matters.'"
Manuela in South Africa replied to "Rainstorm" (#741), which included a
family who had their worldly belongings in the back of a pickup truck.
Manuela: "I absolutely love all the stories, but today's really touched
my heart. It brought back memories of my own experiences. I am from
Mozambique, where I lived till a couple of months after the country's
independence (1975), at which time I had to flee. Alone with my son, my
worldly goods being reduced to what I could put in the car, I drove to
South Africa where I was given all the help I needed to start a new
life." Congratulations on your brave move, to start over for the sake of
your son, Manuela.
Joyce Schowalter, Publisher
Co-Conspirator to Make the World a Better Place
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