The United Nations just clarified what we’ve been cognizant of and denying for way too long — that us hominids are wrecking our planet. But that’s not what this letter is about. Anyway, we know we can stop that process if we care enough. Our ranks can rally, make sacrifices of comfort and personal gain, apply our skills and resources, save air water and dirt for some semblance of the future.

As we contemplate that, the international scientific community has amply (understatement) educated us, once and for all, on the emergency status of this roaring virus that has throttled our whole species. But, this too is not what my letter is about. Anyway, we know COVID-19 ain’t going away until we act as one, ready to accept some personal discomfort — shot? mask?

Closer to home, no scientists need be involved, barely any persuasive research need precede the popular acceptance that our beloved hill towns, our underestimated, diminutive, powerful communities, justifiably demand protection from disaster. We’re educated, hard-working, politically concerned. To agree that a significant portion of our small Western Mass. population exerts an influence on big world functions is challengeable by no court of law. We have a voice. And we deserve safety.

Protection from disaster is a right not a privilege. Everyone among us is entitled to rescue. But who is charged with the task? Who is the sentinel by the portal ready to leap to catch a stumbling elder, or pound on the chest of a choking child? Who is ready to jump out of routine to drive the ambulance without question or judgement?

Everyone is.

Me. You. Your Mom. My wife’s uncle’s great-grand niece-in-law, every person born within a period of 80 years or so who is aware, self-dressing and ambulatory. If you have a pulse, you care. This is what my letter is about.

You leap to your feet when an 8-year-old girl collapses from a shin kick on the soccer field. You fight back tears when you read about a teen killed in an SUV rollover. When you hear about the elder vet who was attacked by a gang, you stay awake until you get the news of the old man’s recovery. You care. Of course you do, who wouldn’t?

You might be encouraged to learn that your caring heart can be of active use. You can ease the pain of others. It’s called intervention. An ambulance is dispatched.

In Charlemont we have a very small ambulance crew. Each of us carries a radio communicator wherever we go. When that device alerts us to an emergency in our town, we react. We drop what we’re doing and respond to the firehouse where the ambulance is parked. Someone jumps behind the wheel, others prepare for treatment and transport of the patient in accordance with the announced injury or medical condition of the awaiting patient. By law, we cannot respond unless we have a crew, i.e. sufficient number of responders trained at a level necessitated by the specific call.

Tragically, we cannot always gather enough trained EMTs to respond legally. After all, we have day jobs. This means that the one in distress, the anxious patient, the one having difficulty breathing, the one with a river raft related head injury, the one in anaphylactic shock from a bee sting will have to wait longer until another town’s ambulance can respond. Some conditions can’t wait that long.

The training is exhaustive. The hours can be tough. But so is being a committed member of a community. So is being a parent, a teacher, a bread winner.

Forgive me, I wax didactic. My introduction to the EMS family of Charlemont was hardly romantic. There was a special meeting several years ago where a few desperately charismatic speakers made a clear case. EMTs were needed. The old timers were still strong, but approaching the ranks of the fried. As the event wound down, a plead for volunteers was uttered. Being basically lazy and comfy I told myself “Na, not for my soft keister.” Others felt likewise. No hands went up. Big pause.

But then my family came into focus. My aging in-laws. My silly grandkids. And you, ya clumsy athlete, bouncing down the Deerfield in a truck tube as if it was safe. Then I imagined the diabetic woman who volunteered her life away. The overweight, alcoholic veteran with PTSD, living in a tiny trailer, alone. I thought about the unforeseeable hazards of which we are largely innocent, the increasing dangers in so many work environments. Falling branches, rabid raccoons, new drivers on the road, novice hunters.…

My hand went up. Two inches above my shoulder. What was I leaping into?

I was three times the age of anyone in my class at GCC and it was a blast. The town of Charlemont paid for everything (and pays me for every emergency incident I attend). I found myself actually absorbing the material, probably because of the comradery between us trainees. In spite of the technical bent of the course, humor often prevailed, making the driest medical/physiological drivel entertaining.

It wasn’t a breeze. I quit four times (though I never missed a class). I was a spaz during practical exams. But in the end my sense of accomplishment remains today. The course was a wonderful experience.

Then I proceeded through the hurdles. Applying for a job on the Charlemont ambulance. Becoming familiar with protocols for town, state and nation. Then learning the names of our proud, small team. I learned where stuff was kept. I learned to drive the ambulance. I learned the value of breathing when it wants to stop, and introducing this, as an effective intervention, to patients.

It’s more of an adventure than a job. And I love it.

Yet, our team, like most towns’, is strained. Please consider this invitation to join. It will change you.

What do you think? Call me: 413-625-9923

Sonny Crawford lives in Charlemont.