Victimhood vs clouds with silver linings

Once upon a time (not so very long ago, as a matter of fact) accidents were just that—accidents. Today, it seems, there is no such thing as an accident. There is always a guilty party to whom blame can be assigned and from whom financial compensation can be extracted.

Indeed, there are some folks who appear to regard accidents not as calamities, but as windfalls—welcome opportunities for instant, undeserved enrichment. An automobile accident in which a friend was recently involved is a case in point.

The young woman who had struck my friend’s car refused an offer by the policeman at the scene to call an ambulance. Later, however, she started complaining about feeling ill, though she was somewhat inconsistent as to where the pain was located.

“I offered to call an ambulance, but you turned me down,” said the cop. “I think you’ve missed your chance.” At this, the young woman appeared to experience a miraculous recovery.

A glance at the TV set or the daily paper reveals that my friend’s experience was extraordinary only in the fact that nothing came of it.

Accidents frequently result in questionable claims for medical expenses which insurers find cheaper to pay out than to fight. Indeed, fraudulent claims are a primary reason why our automobile insurance premiums are so high.

There is something decidedly disturbing about this. And it is by no means solely the thought that larceny lurks in the hearts of so many of our fellow citizens.

What, for instance, does it tell us about our education system? For one thing, it demonstrates that our educators’ relentless efforts to foster “pride” and “self esteem” among the nation’s children are clearly a dismal failure.

People possessed of a genuine sense of pride and self-esteem would never stoop to feigning victimhood. Indeed, even if they were genuine victims, they would do everything in their power to avoid being perceived as such.

Half a century or so ago—when accidents were accidents and they just “happened”—the “victims” would simply pick themselves up, dust them selves down and go about their daily lives.

Our handyman, Mr. Coacker, for example, never complained about the “whiff of gas” during the First World War that ended his promising boxing career.

Mr. Coacker—a 5ft 2in bantamweight—had been a rising star in the London boxing ring at a time when a plucky fighter with a lightning fast left and right had a sure ticket out of the slums.

A gas attack, however, damaged his lungs so badly he found it hard to go three rounds, let alone 10 or 15. But Mr. Coacker was no quitter. He devoted himself to coaching us kids in the Noble Art, and would never accept a penny piece for it.

“It’ll take more than the Kaiser to put me down for the count,” he would say, “Besides, the wife’s pleased I’ve still got my looks.” By this, he meant that he didn’t have cauliflower ears like his brother, Fred.

Another veteran of the First World War was old Mr. Lazell, whose left arm had been amputated at the shoulder after he had been wounded during the Battle of the Somme.

After the war, he went into business as a building contractor and his lack of limb in no way adversely affected his bricklaying ability. Indeed, he used to boast that he could lay bricks faster and neater one–handed than any of his three sons.

On Sundays, Mr. Lazell would strap on a prosthesis that ended in a carved wooden hand enclosed in a brown leather glove. I know the hand was made out of wood because I felt it on a number of occasions—on the back of my head.

If he caught us choirboys fooling around the churchyard after services, with a sharp twist at the waist, he would make his prosthetic arm lash out and the wooden hand would, with devastating accuracy, deliver “a clip on the ear.”

Far from resenting it, we greatly admired his prowess—so much so we would often play “Mr. Lazell” on unsuspecting school mates during recess.

Back in those days, heavy-duty leather belts that ran from a central drive shaft drove a great deal of farm and industrial machinery. The belts were often unguarded, and they moved so swiftly they would take off a hand or a foot in a trice.

Thus it was by no means unusual to meet men who, as a consequence of momentary lapses of attention, had lost fingers, toes, hands, feet, and occasionally even arms and legs.

Surprisingly, by today’s way of thinking, I never heard any of these accident victims complain that their injury was anybody’s fault but their own.

Most of them would take great pains to warn youngsters: “Pay close attention to what you’re doing or you’ll end up like me.” And most of them took enormous pride in their ability to overcome their handicaps.

One of our church lay readers, a farm worker, had lost his left hand in a belt accident while operating a threshing machine. In place of his hand, he had hook that he used with marvelous dexterity.

We choir boys would watch, fascinated, as he tucked into a church harvest supper—using the hook instead of a fork while cutting his meat, spearing apples and chunks of bread and cheese, and carefully wiping it clean with a napkin after each course.

We thought he was just about the coolest person on the face of the earth. In fact, one of our favorite games was pretending to be Mr. Quilter with his hook.

One day I plucked up the courage to ask him if it had hurt when he had lost his hand. “Oh, yes, young Guy,” he replied, “hurt something fierce, it did. I had to go to the hospital and get it all bandaged up. I had to take a whole afternoon off work!”

Then he paused and ruminated for a bit. “But, you know,” he continued, “Every cloud has got a silver lining: If I hadn’t lost my hand, I wouldn’t have this hook!”

For all that we boast about the amazing progress we have made during the past 50 years, I can’t help thinking that Mr. Quilter and his friends knew something about life that completely eludes us today. GPH✠