Safety First

"Not a gift of a cow, nor a gift of land, nor yet a gift of food, is so important as the gift of safety, which is declared to be the great gift among all gifts in this world."
-From The Panchatantra Fables

Last evening, as is becoming my custom, I set out for a stroll to meet my Spouse who again was walking back from work.
I set foot on the bridge and as I did so, glanced down into the undergrowth that runs along by the railroad track and the riverbank.
For once, there was somebody sitting down there. It struck me as highly unusual because I had never seen a soul in that place, but it was rapidly superseded by the fact of his having a towel on his head which was in itself overwritten by the realisation that the towel was the only garment he wore.
I was quite jolted and all of a sudden the path between my Spouse and I seemed ten times the journey. I passed a little old lady on my way; she glided along and I briefly considered warning her of the sight.
However, just a step behind her I met my Spouse and we started out for home, with the old lady in front. I told my Spouse immediately.
Two young women approached us from the direction I had walked in, and warned us; they were quite concerned at the odd spectacle and I explained that I was aware of it having come from that end of the bridge and that we would call the police. We considered it necessary for the safety of the man - who knew what state of mind he was in?- as well as for our own comfort.
The two then indicated that the little old lady really ought to be told before she reached the end of the bridge. Spouse and I hurried and I reached her halfway along the path.
I did my very best, I truly did.
She could only say, "I don't understand. I don't understand."
She spoke no word of English.
I made numerous efforts but all were in vain. I waved my hands. She waved her hands.
I shrugged; she shrugged. I considered that I might frighten her if I continued to attempt to explain what I was trying to tell her and so I gave up.
I inwardly wished her well, said pointlessly that I had only been trying to help, and caught up with my Spouse.
We did telephone the local police as soon as we reached home.
They were extremely helpful and promised to send somebody over to investigate immediately.
Which brings me, at last, to one of the main reasons we are living in the United States.
In Ireland, if one calls the local police station for help, one might be told that one has called the incorrect police station for one's area.
"It's not our jurisdiction," I have heard it sung loftily many times.
One calls, then, the next station and is advised to refer back to the original station or to a third and back and forth it goes until the crisis passes and the need for police is over, one way or another.
It is, in my limited experience, as bad as all that, at least in the area I grew up in. I have heard firsthand tales of police being called about a burglary or somebody having a rock thrown through their window, and the hours and days passed and the police did not arrive.
My Spouse grew up in a different country but with similar tales of woe.
Once, in California, we needed to go out late at night. We lived in our dear small town and my Spouse wore his pyjamas and stayed in the car while I dashed into the supermarket to fetch an item for some project or other he was working on.
He stayed at the far end of the car park. At the time we had cell phones with an unlimited calling plan and between us had endless minutes of time.
I was connected then, via an ear piece, to my Spouse as I exited the store. Several young fellows- at home in Ireland we would refer to them as hooligans- walked close to me and one said,
"do you have any change?"
They did not know that my Spouse could hear everything, or that I had a car waiting for me. They assumed that I was walking home alone.
"No, I don't," I said as amiably as I could. I kept moving.
"Are you lying?" came a voice behind my back.
I turned around and pondered what on earth to reply to that ridiculous and rude question.
"If I was lying, I'd most likely not tell you," I said logically.
They moved toward me and then observed that there was a car, and that I was about to get inside it.
"You're only brave because you have a car," called the leader of the pack.
I said nothing; perhaps they were right but it mattered not. We drove away and left them at a loose end.
The very moment we reached home we called the local police and my Spouse told them that I had been threatened. The police not only went to the store to investigate the matter but kindly called us back later that night with the news that the young men had all been in violation of their parole and that one of them had been arrested.
I want to feel safe; I want to feel that I can ask for help and that it will arrive on time and without discussion about area and district.
Since Spouse entered the United State ten years ago and I six, we have both had numerous positive, reaffirming experiences with the police and we cling to that when wondering where to live, when trying to decide which place satisfies most of our priorities. Because, when all is said and done, no country will have everything we want, all the time.
We feel safe and protected here, and that is no slight thing.