For me, like a lot of people who grew up in the 50’s, the words of the Willie Nelson song are true, “My heroes have always been cowboys.” Mostly, they were the ones on TV although, growing up in Montana, I actually knew some real cowboys.
I remember meeting John Wayne when he went to Oklahoma City to dedicate the National Cowboy Hall of Fame. He stayed in a motel across the street from my grandma’s house. My sisters and I discovered this and snuck over, hoping to catch a glimpse. We found his room near the pool and eagerly waited by the glass door, hoping to be noticed. He became a lasting hero to me when he came out to converse and share autographs with three nervous young girls. To me, he was ten feet tall.
My most enduring childhood hero was my Dad. In my world, he could do anything. He could fix anything. He knew everything. He was up there with John Wayne. As I grew older and childhood perspective faded, the nature of his heroism changed. He didn’t change. He didn’t know more — or less. He couldn’t do more — or less. The change was in me and my perception of heroes.
We often assign heroism to life savers. If that’s the case, I’ve been a hero a few times myself. In a long career as a nurse, I’ve caught a few people when they were (as we say in the ER), “circling the drain.” It’s part of my job — what I know how to do best. Though patients have returned and told me, “You saved my life,” I’ve never thought of myself as a hero.
I think it’s hard to be a public hero — to have to live up to the high expectations of others. We always say how sad it is when a hero “falls.” The truth is, a hero doesn’t fall. The heroic act remains intact. The fall comes only when we realize the hero is human – just like the rest of us.
When I was a child, my heroes were huge, though they were few in number. These days, my heroes are more life-size, but I have many of them. They are people I meet every day, people who make the extra effort. Like…
… the man on the plane who voluntarily trades his window seat so I can sit next to my traveling companion.
… my daughter who wakes me in the morning with a steaming cup of tea.
… the mechanic who takes a few minutes to fix the loose bolt on my muffler — for free.
… my sister who leaves a fresh bouquet of flowers from her garden on my front porch, for no special reason.
… my office nurse who, on her lunch time, persistently and willingly completes eight phone calls, four faxes, and five forms to arrange an urgent referral for one of my patients.
… my dad who, without being asked, changes all five belts on the greasy engine of my ancient Mercedes — leaving one thing less for me to do when I get home from vacation.
… my friend who climbs a steep mountain pass with a fifty pound pack, then comes back down the trail to give me encouragement when I am struggling with the altitude and a heavy load.
These, and others like them, are the heroes who enrich my life. Most of the time, they don’t even know it.
Anita Jones Horner ©1999
