Distant sirens

In the dark I hear a siren

It screams across the night

Someone else is in trouble


Eric Burden & The Animals, “Hotel Hell”


I’m sitting here in the blackness of my screened back porch, hearing the distant rumble of traffic, the high-pitched drone of crickets and tree frogs, and the steady beat of rain on the roof and the metallic plinking as water works its way down the drain spouts. It’s been raining here in my upper Midwestern city for more than two weeks now, and it’s time for it to stop. The two large lakes downtown are reaching historic high water marks, and streets are closed due to high water, most sporadically, a few for a long time, and water is inching ever closer to the houses close to the lake..


I’m not affected personally, our house is on high ground a few miles away. Our neighbor got water in his basement, but ours is dry. For now anyway, the occasional distant siren is reassuring in a strange way, because I know it’s not for me. This time.


I’m reminded of Douglas Adams’ concept in his Hitchhiker “Trilogy” about SEPs -- “Someone Else’s Problem.” The idea that if something does not affect us directly, and we don’t want to deal with it, we just consider it someone else’s problem and we don’t even see it any more. Another word might be denial. Whistling past a graveyard. Burying one’s head in the sand.


I’m truly sorry for the people sandbagging their houses, and for the family of the man who got swept from his car and into a culvert. People whose life’s mementoes have been reduced to soggy pulp, and who found out their insurance does not cover floods. And to carry it further, I’m sorry for the players on the world’s larger stage, for


“the warriors whose strength is not to fight . . . .

for the refugees on the unarmed road of flight

An' for each an' every underdog soldier in the night “

(Bob Dylan, “Chimes of Freedom”)


But inside I am so relieved that it isn’t me. Selfish or self-preservation? Does it matter? Truth is I have so far dodged a bullet, the one I know is out there with my name on it, but somewhere and sometime I will have my own rendevous with an overwhelming problem, and someday I will be gone from this life. So what’s wrong with me enjoying this bit of night air and noticing the magical rhythm of the raindrops, smelling the damp greenness, sipping a nice red wine? Would it help others if I make myself feel guilty, or deprive myself of doing something I want to do? Would my self-inflicted suffering in any way lessen theirs?


The simple answer might be for me to do something, whether it be fill sandbags or send money or become an annoying internet zealot. But would that really make a difference, such small drops of water into a sea of troubles, what would even that accomplish other than to assuage a nagging feeling of guilt? Or is that rationalization?


I don’t know those answers, but I do know I need another glass of wine.