Heroes and Angels

I received something from my uncle (Hi Unk!) today that really touched the very heart of me. He entitled it "Rednecks". But, I think I might have a better title. I'll paraphrase what he said to me:

Hundreds, maybe a thousand small boats pulled by countless pickups and SUVs from across the South are headed for Houston. Almost all of them driven by men. They're using their own property, sacrificing their own time, spending their own money, and risking their own lives for one reason: to help total strangers in desperate need.

Most of them are by themselves. Most are dressed like the redneck duck hunters and the bass fisherman they are. Many are veterans. Most are wearing well-used gimme-hats, t-shirts, and jeans; and there's a preponderance of camo. Most are probably gun owners.

These are the people the Left loves to hate, the ones Maddow mocks. The ones Maher and Olbermann just "know" they're so much better than.

These are The Quiet Ones. They don't wear masks and tear down statues. They don't, as a rule, march and demonstrate. They've never participated in a riot. Never burned a flag. Many of them consider sushi as bait. And most have probably never been in a Whole Foods.

But they'll spend the next week or two wading in cold, dirty, germ-infested water; dodging gators and water moccasins and attempting to side-step snakes and fire ants. Eating whatever meager rations are available; and sleeping wherever they can in dirty, damp clothes. Their reward is the gratitude; the tears, hugs and smiles from the terrified people they help. They'll deliver one boatload, and then go back for more. Tirelessly. For hours. Without rest.

When disaster strikes, it's what men do. Real men. Heroic men. American men. And then they'll knock back a few shots, or a few beers with like-minded men they've never met before, and talk about the fish they've caught, or ten-point bucks, or the benefits of hollow-point ammo, or their pick-up trucks, or Jesus, or their classic cars they'll restore. Someday.

And the next time they hear someone talk about "the patriarchy", or "male privilege", they'll snort, turn off the TV and go to bed.

In the meantime, they'll likely be up again before dawn. To do it again. Until the helpless are rescued. And the work's done. For as long as they are able, even pushing themselves when they know they aren't.

They're unlikely to be reimbursed. There won't be medals. No parades. No gratitude of a nation. There won't be a spot on any news feed. They won't care. They're heroes. And it's what heroes do.

Heroes.

Angels.