Been a while, but…

To catch up.  I’ve been involved in a serious project at work that has taken all the brain cycles, which has meant a dramatic decline in the output of RoadDave.  For that I’m sorry, as I know several of you read it on a semi-regular basis, if only as a negative example.  Since the summer has arrived and things have settled down to a dull roar, we can actually take a few moments and post some new stuff.

First off, we’re all fine on the home front, just overworked and out of consecutive hours to engage in recreational writing.  Nothing tragic or deeply important, simply busier than a one-armed wallpaper hanger.

Canada Day.  We decided that the presence of 125,000 close friends up on Parliament Hill wasn’t for us this year and perhaps just as well.  Around 9 pm or so, we were just starting to watch the broadcast coverage of The National Drunk from Parliament Hill when we heard some fireworks go off locally. 

This isn’t unusual, as we are but steps from a largish municipal park and green space.  The local testosterone monkeys always seem to have money to buy fireworks and let them off on any particular holiday, like Victoria Day, Canada Day or Diwali.  I was expecting some kind of spontaneous eruption, if only because Spain won the Cup too.  We’re used to the sound, more or less and not really afraid of them.  I held a Fireworks and Pyro certificate for a number of years and don’t mind it at all, truth be told.  There’s something comfy about the sound of an 8-inch three-break chrysanthemum shell launching four feet from your right hand that just feels good.  You feel it in your lungs and belly, that deep, satisfying ‘Whomp” sound, knowing the round is away safely and will momentarily become something beautiful in the night sky.

After a few gerbs and salutes I did hear a “Whomp” down deep and low, percussive and hard, that was emphatically not the kind of fireworks the unlicensed and uninsured consumer can buy.  Even bundling several charges together, you can’t get that sound with consumer pyro.

I got up, pulled on some clothing and went outside to see what was going on as I knew something wasn’t right.  Hearing sirens in the distance, I figured something was up and less than a minute later, a whole fire company of Ottawa Fire Service was screaming down our sleepy street.  The townhouse more or less across the street and four doors left was on fire, dense black smoke billowing out the back, three storeys in the air.

Moments later, a neighbour came running.  He had seen the deck of the house on fire and had both called 911 and had stretched his garden hose over to the burning deck in an attempt to buy some time.  Then he saw the barbecue propane tank light off and he ran for it.  That was likely the “Whomp” I had heard and went to investigate.  At the same time, the Ottawa Fire Service were running hose and making their way into the scene.

The fire got into the common roof area while the aerial ladder kept pouring water, trying to limit the damage, as the fire service started their job.  Nobody was home and those directly adjacent were safely evacuated.  No lives were lost.  The Ottawa Fire Service did what they do, with professional skill.

What the episode taught me was something different, completely unrelated to fire.  We don’t know our neighbours any more and not just from a personal standpoint.  It is more global.  A small group of us that congregated in the driveway and watched the events unfold last night, barely know each other by name.  We semi-recognize each other, perhaps nodding in recognition at the mailbox or on the street.  Between us we exchanged more words in two hours than we had in the previous six years.  Why is this?

Upon reflection it is because the concept of ‘neighbour’ has become unused.  We go to work, come home and enter our personal space, interacting with our family units and the television.  We don’t talk over the back fence any more.  Our world has at the same time become huge and very tiny, limited to our friends online or the distant relative who sends us the lolcats email.  By the way, I don’t care to receive the Facebook update of “Uncle Bernard Violated a Goat in Farmville!” any more.  I wish Uncle Bernard would take up another hobby, like tying trout flies or trying to Bedazzle a moving freight train.

Neighbours are strange things, in that they are very much in your personal space, within 100 feet of where you hang your toothbrush, but not at all involved in your life, beyond the cursory nod of occasional acknowledgement.  One or two might know your name and that’s about where it ends. 

I find that unfortunate, as who else can you tap immediately to help you dig your car out of a snow bank, or grab the other end of a 2 x 12 you’re hauling around the house?  A good neighbour does stuff like that, almost unbidden, with no thought of recompense, aside from the occasional coffee, or a cold pint on a hot day.  Why?  Because that is what a good neighbour does. 

We were fortunate in that one of the folks on the street tried to be a good neighbour, putting the hose to a flaming wooden deck, to at least try to help, putting himself at risk to save the property of someone whom he didn’t know.  That’s as good a definition of a neighbour as you can get.