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| Sunday, April 17th, 2005 | | 2:06 am |
If you could trade lives with one person for a day, who would it be, and what would you do?
I don't believe there's anything particularly unsatisfying about my life, so I've never given this sort of question much thought. I have a pretty good life, after all. It's not an easy one by any stretch of the imagination, but nothing worthwhile ever is. I have the satisfaction of knowing that what I do is for the good of the people of Canada and the eventual civilization of the northern frontier. I've had the phenomenal good fortune to be asked by my government to serve in extended capacities I never even dreamed possible. I've had thirteen years with the best woman in the world, and I've had two of the kind of dogs that a man is lucky to come across even once in his lifetime. Why would I want to trade away a life like that, even for one day? I suppose, though, that if I had to trade places with someone. . . hm. It might be interesting to spend a day in the life of someone in the future. I'd like what becomes of my country after I'm gone. | | Sunday, April 3rd, 2005 | | 1:26 pm |
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif) theatrical_muse question: What is so important to you that without it... "What is so important to you that without it, life would not be worth living? Why?" I could live without the structure of the law- I know there are those who think I would be useless out of uniform, but I think I could find a way to live that would carry me pretty well, if I had to leave my profession behind forever for some reason. I could live without my country, too, despite the fact that I don't think I would be anything like myself if I had been exiled from Canada for some reason as a small child and never allowed to return. I could even, although it hurts merely to think about the possibility, live without ever seeing another dog again for as long as I lived. (Sorry, Prince- I'm trying to be as hard on myself as I can, here.) But what I could not live without, regardless of anything else that happened- not if I wanted my life to be worth anything at all- is the knowledge of the consequences of my actions, and the ability to act on it. I suppose it would be simpler to say the ability to tell right from wrong, really, but that's a subset of the former knowledge. I was raised to believe that you can't justly ask another man or woman to do the right thing unless you first ask that of yourself. Even if everything else is taken away from you, including an external source of what's right and wrong- say, your religious or moral code of behaviour- even the most otherwise debased person can still do the right thing, if he or she knows what consequences follow on his or her actions. I don't think I could live without that. That's not the life of a man. That's the life of an animal- again, sorry, Prince. I know you know. I meant the kind of animals who don't stop to think at all. | | 1:12 pm |
theatrical_muse question: If you could do one totally irresponsible or even bad thing.... "If you could do one totally irresponsible or even bad thing with absolutely no consequences, what would it be and why?" To answer this question at all goes against the grain of pretty well everything I've ever done. I've spent my life working to avoid irresponsible behaviour, and when I have behaved badly, I've taken my consequences like a man should. But... Since my time with the League, and the revelation of a number of things I'd thought fictional to be in fact real... since then, I can think of one thing, and I'm not sure that I would have the power to resist it if the opportunity arose. My wife Louise died in the Frank Slide back in 1933. So did a good sixty-nine other people. Most of the town of Frank, Alberta was destroyed within seconds. I saw the entirety of Turtle Mountain's 82 million tonnes of limestone fall on the town from the mountain itself, as Prince and I were on our way to break up an anarchists' meeting at the time. If I could travel back in time to April 29th, 1903, at 4:05 AM, I would do everything in my power to get my wife out of there before the mountain fell- even if it meant I had to leave the rest of the townsfolk without any warning or notice of what was to come. I would call abandoning sixty-nine people to their deaths for the sake of one to be irresponsible beyond all belief. But I'm not sure I could avoid it in those specific circumstances. Arriving earlier in the evening would be an entirely different matter. | | Thursday, March 3rd, 2005 | | 11:57 am |
theatrical_muse question: What can you say is truly yours? Hm. That's a good question. Not one that I've given much thought to, but it's still an interesting concept. . . My memories, certainly. Time and old age might take them away from me someday, but I like to think the important ones will be with me forever. I've lived through quite a lot, and if nothing else, my experiences are what I would call 'truly mine'. My honor, I think- as far as any man can say he has that. My conscience. And… I wouldn't ordinarily say that anything material counted as 'truly' mine, since material things fall to pieces in the end, but this is a special case. My dog, Prince. Not in the way that my shoes are mine, or even the way that my uniform is mine. More in the way that a brother, or a true friend, would be mine. | | Friday, February 18th, 2005 | | 12:50 am |
| | Monday, February 14th, 2005 | | 1:31 pm |
theatrical_muse: Have you ever regretted a wish you've made? No. Not since I was a very young boy, anyway. I think every growing lad goes through a period where he thinks someone else's misfortune is his fault. Part of growing up is learning that wishing won't make things come true unless you act on those wishes. I've done very few things that I've ever had cause to regret. Mere wishes aren't even on the list. | | Friday, February 11th, 2005 | | 5:04 pm |
theatrical_muse: What does love mean to you? That's a tough one. There's too many different meanings that I could cite right now. One of the problems with the English language, I think, is that we make one word carry the kind of burden other languages spread out across six or seven. I seem to remember a professor at Rearden College saying that the Greeks had at least four different words for love, if not more. I'm starting to wish I remembered them. I loved my wife, Louise, for a very long time. I still do. When she was alive, I would've done just about anything for her. I don't just mean the kind of things that the poets and songs associate with love, though. All the conventional gestures of romance don't really mean very much, in and of themselves. I mean that her happiness was just as important to me as my own. I would've done whatever I had to in order to make the world a better place for her. I trusted her, implicitly, and I respected her as a person- a better person than I was, I think, although she would probably have argued with me if I'd ever told her that. She was all the things I admired and aspired to- honest, forthright, kind, independent, compassionate- and other things besides. And she was beautiful, or at least I thought she was. I'm told that other people felt differently. I guess they didn't see what I saw. Not that it matters. . . the important thing is that I considered her as important to my life and happiness as breathing. I wanted to be better for her, and I wanted the world to be better for her. I wanted to be with her for the rest of our lives. The landslide that destroyed Frank, Alberta destroyed that particular hope, but the fact remains- as far as I'm concerned, that's love. Only one kind , though. There are others, and they matter just as much. My dog Prince, for example. He's risked his life for me more times than I can count, both when I've asked him and when I haven't. He'd do anything I ever asked of him, with one exception- obey someone else. He works his heart out for me, and I do my best to repay that. I have every reason to believe that he'd rather be by my side than anywhere else. His mother was a wolf and I've seen him hunt, so I know he can feed himself. Except for when he's in harness as my lead dog, I don't tie him up or chain him. He's free to go or stay as he pleases, and he chooses to stay with me. I believe that's a kind of love, too. Prince might not be human, but he's as good as any man. For my part, I'd be as proud as it's possible for a man can be to have Prince as a brother. There's the love of parents, of course- both what they have towards their children, and what children have towards their parents. A father or mother wants what's best for his or her children, and wants them to grow up happy and healthy and strong so they'll be good men and women when the time comes for them to stand on their own. A child, now. . . a child wants his parents to be there, always, and believes with all his heart that they will be. He wants, more than anything, to please his parents- at least, a child with good parents does. I've seen terrible things happen when parents treat their children badly, or indulge them too much at the expense of sensible discipline. Wanting what's best has to have doing what's best as part of the deal, or else it turns from love to something I don't really have a word for. And then there's the other kind, the kind of love that people are supposed to have for one another because they're- well- people. I'm not a churchgoing man, but when I was a boy I was taught that we're supposed to love our neighbours as we love ourselves. That means treating other people with the kind of respect and dignity I want them to show me, and doing what I can for them and the world we both live in. I took to the Mounties to catch my father's murderer, but I stayed there because I didn't want anyone else to ever be in my position. Someone's got to protect people from the very worst their fellow human beings have to offer. I know I'd want that, if I were in their shoes. I can't change the entire world, or even just all of Canada, but I can make one particularly untamed part of it a safer, better place to live. I don't know if that's exactly what loving your neighbour's supposed to mean, but it seems pretty close to the idea from where I’m standing. I hope that's reasonably close to a good answer. It's a complicated question. This is the best I can do at answering it. | | Thursday, February 3rd, 2005 | | 4:04 pm |
theatrical_muse question: Describe what your "happily ever after" would be like. I've got a pretty good life by anyone's standards, when you think about it. I've got a job I love doing something very important. I've got a home and a true friend and partner. I've got the respect of the people I serve, and even the people who don't respect me at least know my reputation. I had the finest wife in the world for thirteen years, before the Slide killed her. It would be greedy of me to ask for any more. That having been said, if I had to end my life's story with a 'happily ever after'. . . There'd be a girl like Louise. Older, to be sure, but the same sort of independent spirit and mind. She'd be the kind of girl worth giving up field work and accepting a promotion to Inspector for. We'd get married in Dawson, and there'd be children- two or three, I think. And the dogs, of course. Even if I got into the kind of rank that meant I'd spend all my time on duty behind a desk, there'd still be the dogs. All the fieldwork I've ever done, and that all the other Mounties have ever done, would pay off and the Territories would be a civilized, law-abiding place to live by the time I had to retire. I might make a stab at some kind of Parliamentary campaign then, since I can't stand the thought of not doing anything all day and I might as well be doing something useful for the people of the Yukon. We'd both live to a ripe old age, and in the end I'd go peacefully in my sleep, but not before saying goodbye to my grandchildren. I think that sums it up pretty nicely. Muse: Sergeant Preston, RCMP
Fandom: Sergeant Preston of the Yukon (radio)
Word count: 293 | | Monday, January 24th, 2005 | | 3:50 pm |
theatrical_muse: What's the furthest away you've ever been from the place you were born? How did you get there? Why did you go? Did you return or even want to come back to where you came from?(Note: this is the theatrical_muse version of Preston, not the sages_of_chaos version. This one is rather older and has been through quite a bit more.) I was born in a small town in what's now the province of Alberta, so that gives me a starting point, but it's. . . a little bit hard to say exactly what the 'furthest away' I've been from there is. You see, I don't have the slightest idea how you go about computing distances to fairy countries like Oz, Ev, Neverland, or Narnia. I'm also not really sure how far the Cheshire Club is from Alberta. As for how I got there. . . My colleagues and I reached Ev via dirigible. We left from London and made for a spot off the coast of French West Africa. Our dirigible flew into a cloud, and when we came out, the landscape below wasn't anything that existed anywhere in Africa. We made a brief landing at the royal castle of Ev, but had to pull out in a hurry. From there it was another dirigible ride across the Deadly Desert to the Winkie Country in western Oz. We stayed there for a while at Jack Pumpkinhead's house- had to find the Cowardly Lion and the Hungry Tiger- but after that, well, we had to go back to the civilized world for a while to regroup and gather some extra allies. That was done through Miss Poppins' talent for jumping through paintings, and included- for me, at least- an un-planned side trip to somewhere in Rajasthan, India. Didn't like that one bit. The Cheshire Club was much easier to reach, as the rabbit hole that connected to the area of the Club had an opening in my time in one of the local gold mines. I just walked down the tunnel until I came out somewhere else. And yes, I came back; I've got a duty, don't I? It's all well and good to help in something as important as the liberation of Oz from a corporation that wants to mine all the magic out from under the country and use it against our everyday world, but I've got an oath to uphold. And even if I didn't. . . Even if I didn't, I couldn't stay in Oz. People in Oz don't get older, and they don't die. Even if you cut someone into little pieces, they don't die. I saw that for myself, felt the pulse in a severed arm- even saw someone who'd been hacked apart grow back together. I'm told that people who enter Oz from outside can be killed, but they don't ever get older. I couldn't live in a country like that. A man's got a natural lifespan allotted to him, and then he gets to move on to his reward. Putting it off by magic, even passive, background magic like that seems wrong somehow. When you add in the fact that there doesn't seem to be any need for policemen in Oz, I would be looking at a very long time living in a country where I wouldn't have a purpose. In the end, Canada is my home, no matter where I go. | | Sunday, January 9th, 2005 | | 2:07 am |
theatrical_muse question: What would a description of your exact opposite be like? I'm having a little difficulty with this question. Talking about what my opposite would be like... well, do you by any chance remember the story of the Pharisee and the tax collector? The two men were at a temple one day, praying. The Pharisee told God of his good deeds and habits, and then thanked God that he wasn't like the other man, who was a miserable, corrupt sort. The tax collector, for his part, spent his entire time at the temple asking for God to have mercy on him as a sinner. Since only the tax collector went home truly justified, I have some trouble with the idea of defining my exact opposite. It comes much too close to bragging about myself and my accomplishments, if only by saying 'this is what I'm not like'. I suppose you could put down that my opposite would probably not be particularly modest... and I don't think it would be stretching things very far to say that he probably treats dogs pretty badly, too. Beyond that, it just doesn't feel right to go into much more detail. ( OOC: That, of course, is the muse's opinion. What follows is the *mun's* thoughts on the subject, which go into rather more detail. ) | | Wednesday, January 5th, 2005 | | 11:44 am |
| | Monday, January 3rd, 2005 | | 2:10 am |
theatrical_muse challenge catchup. Write a drabble/ficlette based on the word: fun.The last few rays of the winter sunlight stretched themselves along the streets of Dawson City, outlining the buildings in golden fire. Outside the snow was fresh, new-fallen. It was wet snow, too, clinging to Constable Harry Neugold's boots with the tenacity of springtime mud. Soon, he knew, the nightly drop in temperature would freeze the very air out of a man's lungs and the snow would turn hard underfoot.For now, though, it was still warm- at least, as warm as it ever got at this time of year in the Yukon. And that suited Constable Neugold just fine. He'd fed his huskies and finished writing out all of his evidence for his superiors. He'd been given permission to leave for the evening. And, perhaps most importantly, he'd been given the message that his sister had come around looking for him. She'd only just arrived in Dawson a few weeks ago. Winters like this were still a novelty to her, he knew that. She'd been begging and hoping for her first sight of a real Yukon snowfall since before she'd left Vancouver. By morning it'd be useless to a girl her age, and by the time a month had passed she'd probably be sick of the sight of snow, but for now- well. Why waste an opportunity to have fun? Harry smiled to himself as he pulled his now-dry parka back on. Now if he could just remember what had happened to his muskrat-fur hat... "You look pretty pleased with something, Constable." Automatically, Harry stood a little straighter. "Hullo, Sergeant Preston," he said. His hand came up into a salute of its own accord as he turned around. The older Mountie stood not far away, his hands behind his back. There was a faint cant to the corners of his mouth and eyes that might've been the beginnings of a smile. He'd never had much luck at reading the man; it made him nervous. Actually, a lot of things about Preston made Harry nervous. He couldn't help it. It was an all-but-inborn response to the voice of a man Harry considered a legend. "I'm, uh- I'm going to go meet my sister, actually." Preston cast a glance at the window. A few fat, heavy flakes of snow were still drifting down from the clouds. "Yes, she was here looking for you earlier. Seemed pretty excited about something." "Oh, I'll bet she was, Sergeant! She's been-" He stopped, feeling suddenly grossly undignified. Babbling like a kid in front of the best-known sergeant the Mounties ever had! "I mean- we never really got what you'd call a proper winter in Vancouver." "Yes, I've heard you get some pretty mild weather down there." Preston did smile then, the expression setting Harry a little more at ease. "So, you're going to show her what a proper winter is like, eh? Dogsledding around the city, perhaps?" Harry shook his head. "No, sir. I've- um, I was going to- she wanted a snowball fight," he said, finishing in a very small voice. "She's seen pictures..." That provoked not merely a smile but a grin on the other Mountie's face. It reminded Harry of the way his lead dog Togo danced about when he saw an opportunity to really run. "Good for you!" Preston said, clapping the startled Harry on the shoulder. "She'll appreciate it, I'm sure. Has she got a proper coat and mittens?" Harry almost goggled at the man- he had no business sounding that much like an ordinary person- but thought better of it. "Um- yes, Sergeant?" "Good. I'd hate for her to come away from a friendly little tussle and find out about frostbite the hard way. She doesn't need that kind of an introduction." "Oh, no, Sergeant. Don't worry, I won't let her freeze." God, it sounded so stupid! Fortunately, the Sergeant didn't seem to notice. "All right, then," Preston said. "You and your sister should go and enjoy yourselves while it's still light out." The words If you're not busy, why don't you come along with us? sat on the tip of Harry's tongue. Preston wasn't nearly so intimidating in person as he was in the stories, and Harry had the sudden feeling that he just might enjoy meeting Cecily, even in the context of something as silly as a snowball fight. But the moment passed, and Harry couldn't bring himself to give voice to the words. "All- all right, Sergeant," he said. He spotted his hat hanging on a nearby hook and pulled it on, mumbling a hurried "Good-bye!" before dashing for the door. Nice going, Harry, he berated himself as he ran through the snow. A fur-clad figure was waiting at the end of the street. Embarrass yourself in front of the man, why don't you. That'll look impressive when Inspector Moore starts looking for men to promote to Sergeant, all right... "Cecily!" he called, putting up a mittened hand. The figure pushed back its hood, revealing his sister's beaming face. "Harry! There you are, I thought you were never going to get finished in there!" He laughed, his breath steaming in the evening air. "I ran into someone on the way out- Sergeant Preston. I've told you about him-" "Sergeant Preston?" exclaimed Cecily. "He's here? Oh, Harry, am I going to get to meet him?" "I, um- not right- not tonight, no," said Harry, feeling the blood rise a little in his cheeks. "I mean- you wanted a snowball fight, so I didn't think you'd-" He stopped; Cecily's face had fallen. "Sis? Is something wrong?" "No-o-o, it's all right," Cecily said. "Come on, Cecily. You can tell me." Cecily shrugged, kicking at the snow. "It's not important. I just wanted to meet him, that's all." "Well, I couldn't ask the man if he wanted to come have a snowball fight, could I?" "I don't see why not," Cecily said. Her tone was a little petulant, but her expression had brightened a bit. "I bet he'd enjoy it." Harry sighed. "Sis, he's a- he's Sergeant Preston. Snowball fights are something regular people do. He's not-" What the Sergeant was or wasn't never got said. A good double fistful of snow came sailing out of nowhere as Harry spoke, catching the young Constable squarely on the jaw. Harry yelped- it was getting under his parka, right up against the skin of his neck! He could hear Cecily's peals of laughter, but he was too busy pawing frantically at the stuff to do anything about it. "All right," he called out, flinging the largest chunk as far away as he could. "Who did that? Where are you?" Another laugh filled the air, a deeper, lower one- a man's laugh. "I'm right over here, Harry. You need to pay more attention sometimes." It couldn't be. It just couldn't. Harry turned to look. Preston stood not ten yards away, casually tossing a second, similarly-sized snowball in the air with one hand. There was that faint little smile again... "Oh, hello there, Sergeant!" Cecily cried, and the other man nodded politely. "Hello yourself, Miss Neugold," Preston answered. "Harry?" "Uh- yes?" The smile became a grin once more. "Defend yourself." Guess he knows how to have fun after all, Harry thought, just before Preston's snowball smacked him in the face. Current Mood:  chipper | | Friday, December 10th, 2004 | | 12:10 pm |
theatrical_muse catch-ups What do you want for your birthday? Word count: 118. I'm afraid you've caught me unprepared. You see, it's been a while- years, really- since anyone asked me that question. I don't have room for much in my cabin, but I wouldn't say no to a few good books I haven't already read. Right now, most of my books are pretty worn around the spine from repeated rereadings and general age. New ones would be nice- the classics are always welcome. Do they print books in sizes that'll fit in a supply pack or a parka's inside pocket? That might make some of the longer trips home from patrol a little easier. Oh, and I wouldn't mind a hot-water bottle either. Mine seems to have sprung a leak. What are you thankful for? Word count: 242. Oh, lots of things. I'm thankful that there's a good police surgeon in Dawson. I'm thankful for the hospitality of strangers in mining camps and frontier settlements all over the Yukon. I'm thankful that the river froze over a week earlier than usual this year, because it made catching a particularly vicious gang of robbers a lot easier. I'm thankful that I had good parents, even if I did lose them both young. I wouldn't be me without them. I'm thankful that my country is a civilized, peaceable one with a wide-open frontier, and that I have the chance to be part of bringing civilization to that frontier. At the same time, I'm thankful for the wilderness of the North Country and all the possibilities it holds. I'm thankful that last August, Miss Mary Poppins knocked at my door and told me the British Empire needed more from me than ever before. The adventures that followed after, the things I saw and the friends I made- they're all more amazing than anything I had ever imagined, and I wouldn't trade a minute of my time with the League for anything in the world. I’m thankful that I had thirteen good years with the best woman Canada ever produced. And I'm thankful for my dogs, particularly my current dog, Prince. I couldn't ask for a finer animal, or a truer companion and friend of any species. Prince, old boy, thank you. For everything. Muse: Sergeant Preston, RCMP
Fandom: Sergeant Preston of the Yukon (radio) | | Sunday, November 21st, 2004 | | 1:23 am |
theatrical_muse question: Who do you want to see get their final comeuppance? Final comeuppance? I can't think of anybody I want to see get their final comeuppance. The term implies a level of personal involvement that I've tried to avoid in my work as a Mountie. My enemies, as far as I know, hate me because of my job, not because I’m me. I'm after them because of what they do, not because of who they are. As long as they're arrested, tried, sentenced, and- I hope- rehabilitated, that's fine with me. As for the ones who can't be rehabilitated, even in the Yukon we've got hangmen. I do want it noted that I have a personal dislike of the methods and actions of the J. Alfred Prufrock Shipping Company, particularly in regards to their kidnapping and forced breeding of the Mermaid Queen and their thoroughly disgusting invasion of Oz and the surrounding countries. I know what I want to see happen to the members of the Company responsible for those deeds, too. I don't think seeing them in the dock before the King of England and hearing sentence pronounced counts as 'comeuppance', though. That's just justice. OOC note: Those of you who only know the Sergeant through sages_of_chaos should be aware that this is a somewhat later-in-life version of the man. On SOC, I'm playing him as if it were 1899 and the radio series had just ended. At theatrical_muse, he's in his mid-fifties and was recruited a while ago for the 1936 version of the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen. Hence the stuff about the Prufrock Company. | | Sunday, November 14th, 2004 | | 1:43 pm |
Visitors.
(OOC note to those of you who know this character from theatrical_muse: this is not the t_m version of the good Sergeant. This version is from 1899, and has never heard of the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen. He is, however, one of the advisors at sages_of_chaos- go and have a look, I think you'll like it.) Hospitality to strangers is something of a survival trait in the Yukon. You never know when you may find yourself depending on someone else's roof and fire. It doesn't have to be complicated and fussy, the way it so often gets down in Ontario; something as simple as a decent meal and a hot pot of tea or coffee will generally suffice, even in the smallest cabin. In this particular case the circumstances are a little different, but the spirit is still the same. The fire is stoked, the coal-scuttle filled, and the water boiling for the tea. Everything is in order for the next visitor. Well... almost everything. There's not much to be done about the height of the roof. At least there's a reasonably large chair available. | | Sunday, November 7th, 2004 | | 1:36 am |
What is the biggest lie you ever told? What were the consequences?
. . . . . . . I once wore civilian clothes instead of my uniform when I went to investigate reports of a bear-baiting showman. It got me in close enough to slip my dog King into the pit, and then to arrest the man responsible. There was also the time I had to grow a beard to infiltrate a gang of smugglers, but that didn't last long, thank God. That's about it, really. And I don't even like admitting to that much. Current Mood:  uncomfortable | | Sunday, October 31st, 2004 | | 12:53 am |
What would you place in a personal ad if you were making one?
You know, I believe I may actually know what these are. Back during the gold rush, it was pretty common in my part of the Yukon for a man who wanted a wife to advertise for one in papers back in the provinces. There wasn't really an alternative- hardly any women ever came up to the Yukon on their own unless they were married already. Never had to do that myself, but I suppose if I did now. . . hmm. Give me a moment to see what other people are putting in theirs? Hm. Unusual choice of information, but. . . all right. Let's try something like this: "Single, widowed white male, Canadian, early 50s. Career-oriented, clean-living, loves the outdoors. Looking for a decent woman of substance who doesn't mind living in the greatest part of the Great White North. Must be patient, intelligent, willing to manage by herself when I'm away on patrol. I can guarantee a good home and will never treat you in anything less than an honourable fashion. Dog lover an absolute must." | | Tuesday, October 19th, 2004 | | 11:57 am |
What happened the first time you got drunk?
Believe it or not, this actually happened. It happened a long time ago, when I was away at college in America. My father was a pretty strict Methodist, so there wasn't any alcohol in the house to begin with. Even if there were, my mother had a way of looking sorrowful when I did something I knew was wrong- I'm sure you know the sort of look I mean. If I'd ever tried anything like that, and she found out- well, I never got farther than thinking that. That look was very nearly the last thing I wanted to happen. Everyone's a little foolish sooner or later, though, and it happened to me when I was still young enough to avoid the worst consequences. Everyone I knew was hundreds of miles away, which was a pretty new experience for me. It wasn't an easy one, either. You come to rely pretty heavily on your community when you're growing up on the prairies of Alberta, since there's not that much else to fall back on. If you go and leave that behind, you're bound to make mistakes. My particular mistake involved celebrating the football team's first win of the year with a couple of the other freshmen. 'It seemed like a good idea at the time' is just about the worst excuse in the world, but it was the only one I had. I'm not proud of what happened. I’m just glad that it wasn't anything worse than a black eye for me and two for the other fellow, who'd been a supporter of the losing team. I threw up afterwards, too- I remember that pretty clearly. I haven't repeated the experience. It's just not worth it. | | Saturday, October 9th, 2004 | | 11:56 pm |
You've just won two thousand dollars and you've got to spend it. What do you spend it on?
That's a very good question, you know. Mostly because I don't have anything that I want that badly. I've got my uniform, so my working clothing's taken care of. I've got enough civilian clothes to wear when I'm not on duty. I've got a cabin outside Dawson. When I'm on patrol elsewhere in the Territory I'm pretty well set for meals and places to spend the night. That handles the basic needs of everyday life. As for the rest of it, I've been a Mountie since I finally managed to scrape past the height and weight requirements. That translates into a pretty decent salary, so the rest of what I want's within my reach already. Why be greedy? I suppose, if it came right down to it, I would take that two thousand dollars and buy my dogs as much really good meat as they could devour, and some extra bones for Prince. He deserves them. I might buy a new dog from my friend in Skagway who breeds huskies. My wheel dog's starting to get up in years, and it wouldn't be a bad idea to retire him to some family's care while he's still in good enough shape to enjoy it. If I had anything else after that I'd probably put it towards supplies for some of the caches on the trails around the bush villages north of here. People who get lost in the winter depend on those for their basic survival, and it never hurts to make sure there's a little something extra in them. You never know when you might need to use one yourself. Current Mood:  thoughtful | | Sunday, October 3rd, 2004 | | 1:56 pm |
Does heartache make you stronger?
I don't believe it does, no. That would be like saying that the apple-press makes the juice, or the sluice makes the gold. It might bring a person's inner strength out and make it visible, but only if it was there to begin with. All the heartache really does is bring everything to a point where you can't ignore it any more. If there's something in you that's enough to keep you going in spite of everything that's been laid on you, then you'll keep going. And if there's not. . . well, we're only human. Even glaciers break eventually. Strength is like courage. It's in the going on, and sometimes you've got to dig pretty deep to find it. Muse: Sergeant Preston, RCMP
Fandom: Sergeant Preston of the Yukon (radio)
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