Slow Motion Suicide

By Bill Caton

My eyes opened and in that eternity before complete consciousness I became aware of the warm light in the room. Dust swirled in sunbeams, and shadows of tree leaves moved over the covers .

As I rose from bed, I heard the squeaking, creaking, hissing of my mother ironing. I walked down the hall, she saw me, put the iron down and spoke.

This is no mere memory. That summer childhood moment has texture, the physical nature of a dream. It is an elemental experience that is beyond simple explanation. I belonged there in that early morning.

I mention this experience because for me it represents comfort and peace – and the innocence that makes such moments possible. Seeing that innocence in our little ones is bitter-sweet because we know that while their lives will become rich and full as they mature, they will lose much of the joyous abandon of youth.

Last year, Ann and I visited Sandestin in June with the grandchildren and of course we took them to the beach to play. McKenzie was out in the surf, Brodie sat building in the sand and Caroline took my hand to slip out into the waves. The Gulf of Mexico spread out blue and limitless before us, its waves rushing onto the white sand.

Caroline soon learned that the waves sneak from the distance and present themselves in a burst. She hurled her little body up and out and squealed when the water pushed against her. I laughed with her and only my tight grip kept her from plunging into the sea.

We left the water and as we made our way back to the umbrella I realized we were climbing over a burm that had been built to catch the oil that was out there killing the ocean and would inevitably wash ashore like rot oozing from a sore.

So, we punched a hole in the Earth and poison gushed from it. The fine folks at BP droned on about caps, junk shots and relief wells. They told us they were responsible and they would fix this problem. They bought full page advertisements in newspapers throughout the Southeast. They treated that abomination like a public relations problem. And, of course, it worked. Dead dolphins wash up and there is no evidence the oil caused that. And all that oil? Gone. Miraculously. And the money to pay for the clean-up and suffering? Only a fraction has been spent.

But this was no public relations problem. And BP was not solely responsible for it. This was the result of a horrendous crime we perpetrated on nature in our zeal to gorge ourselves on money, on the trinkets we collect.

This slow-motion suicide attempt leads me to doubts and questions I have never before contemplated. For instance I always took for granted an oft-quoted verse from Ecclesiastes: “A generation goes, and a generation comes, but the Earth remains forever.” Really?

In retrospect, that time spent watching the children saddens me because I know that they did not listen to the dull news reports, they did not see the internet video of the filth blasting from the bowels of the earth. They still trusted that their Mommy and Daddy and Granny and Poppy were doing things right, were providing them with a place to live, a place where they belong.

Now it is Memorial Day a year later, the summer season has begun, the beach looks clean and the bars are packed. And we have resumed our ignorant march.