Mud Slinging

By Gordon Hopkins “You pray for rain, you gotta deal with the mud too. That's a part of it.” -Denzel Washington As you may have noticed, we’ve gotten a bit of weather this week. That’s the nice thing about Nebraska, weather is always in season here.The rain was needed. That’s what they all say. They always say that after it rains. Who needs the rain? Well, the conventional answer is farmers, but other folks needed the rain, too.Like the Fire Department.The dry, windy weather has left our fertile landscape looking like a Sergio Leon flick. Dry brush and brittle corn stubble ignites on a whim, sending our emergency crews scrambling again and again. I know this because every time a fire truck in this county turns on those flashing lights and that howling siren, I have to hop into my car and follow, at a safe distance and obeying all speed limits and traffic laws, I can assure you.Alas, more often than not, I don’t get a photo. Every once in a while, I get a nice shot of a fire. Far too often, however, I arrive on the scene only to find the fire out. At best, maybe I’ll get a nice shot of some moldering debris or a quickly diminishing column of smoke or a firefighter spraying a hose.Advice to aspiring news photographers: If you can’t get a shot of flames, your next best bet is some hose action.Is it a bit selfish to wish our firefighters weren’t quite so efficient? I don’t want a raging inferno. I’d just like a fire to last long enough to get one good shot. Is that so much to ask?There is a reason I’m writing about the subject of fires and those who fight them today.Yesterday afternoon, a call came in for a fire truck and emergency crews. I don’t know what it was. It could have been a fire. It could have been a car crash. It could have been yet another report of a gang of itinerant Kansans, crossing the border to steal our lovely Nebraska corn, like they do.I only know that I hopped into my car and headed down the highway in hopes of finding a photo.So, what was that emergency call all about, anyway? Don’t bother asking me. I never got there.See, I’m driving along when I spot some flashing lights behind me. As a good, law-abiding citizen, I did what all good, law-abiding citizens do and pulled over to let the emergency vehicles pass.So far so good. Once they pass me by, I start to pull back onto the road.Only, I don’t move.Oops, I think. I forgot to put her back in gear. No, she’s in gear, alright. So why am I not moving?You’ve probably already figured out why. I was stuck in the mud.Not a problem, I think to myself. As a Nebraska native, I’ve been stuck in the snow on more than one occasion and I know how to handle that. Rocking back and forth. Pull forward a little bit, then back a little bit, then forward again, and so on. It’s works for the snow. Mud can’t be that different, can it?Well, yes it can. I keep sliding until my car is at a 90-degree angle to the road. I try turning left, then right, then left again. My situation improves somewhat. Now I’m at a 45-degree angle.“I’m not sure what else I could try. Honestly, my options are limited. Forward. Back. Left. Right. That’s pretty much it.As I am making my slow-motion descent deeper and deeper back into the Nebraska mud that spawned me, it appears that the emergency, whatever it was, must be over.The same emergency vehicles I had been following (at a safe distance, I remind you once again) are now one their way back.One of the nice things about living in a small community is that everyone knows everyone. That is also one of the big downsides.My first choice would have been to have some generous stranger that I had never seen before and would never see again take mercy on me and help me out of my trap. My second preference was to sit in that mud hole until I starved to death.Unfortunately, neither of these options worked out for me. As I’m sitting on the side of the road, a couple of those vehicles slow down and pull over to the side of the road.I scrunch down into my seat, as if hoping not to be seen, though I know it is already too late.I chant quiet to myself, “Please don’t be someone I know. Please don’t be someone I know. Please don’t be someone I know.”A man gets out of the car. It’s Fire Chief, Kenny Krause. The same guy I talk to every time I have to report on a fire. A guy I see all the time.Swell.“Don’t worry, Gordon. We’ll get you out,” he announced, cheerfully, rubbing salt into my wound of embarrassment.So, he and some of his fellow rescue rangers lay hands on my car and I gun the engine. Mud flies everywhere but my car doesn’t move.As this is happening, a fire truck and more cars pull over. More firefighters and rescue personnel, all people who know who I am. My face is now as red as the fire truck. Suddenly, it seems like I have an entire football team pushing my car.Slowly, my car creeps out of the mushy bog and regains the road. There is a lot of moving traffic, so I can’t really stop. I just stick my arm out of the window, waving, and yell, “Thank you!” Driving off, I leave behind my mud-splattered rescuers.As soon as I spot an available turn off, I pull onto a side road, park and try to crawl into my glove box.So, I guess my point is, be nice to your local firefighters and deputies and EMTs and all those emergency workers. If you are really nice to them, maybe, just maybe, they won’t laugh at you while they are rescuing you from your own stupidity.Oh, and to those folks who push my car back onto the road, thanks and I’m sorry about your pants.Now let’s never speak of this again.

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