The Ballad of Ken Chan

By M.J. Preston

Sometimes you meet someone and work with them, and though that working relationship doesn’t blossom into the intimacy of friendship, it becomes a relationship of mutual respect. That is what I’d say about my relationship with Ken Chan. We weren’t buddies, yacking about home life, but two guys that did the same job for different companies, which at times led to helping each other out. Ken was always helpful and knowledgeable. I never asked Ken Chan a question about fuel that he didn’t have an answer for. As loader-trainers go, Ken knew his stuff, and I would go so far to say that he was an incredible asset to the company he worked for.

I also know that Ken is a veteran. He served in the Canadian Armed Forces for 25 years. I know he served in the Balkans; we talked a bit about that. When he left the service, he started training people on how to handle fuel. He became a loader-trainer and has taught some of the people who taught me how to handle fuel. I think some people get the wrong impression of loaders-trainers in the fuel business.  They think you’re a washed-up driver or lacking the ability to do anything else. Nothing could be further from the truth. You’re teaching people how to load and unload all sorts of fuel, from premium gasoline to jet fuel. Those that pick up and deliver these dangerous goods in a professional manner can usually attribute their success starting with a good loader-trainer.

That was Ken.

Sometimes, I would watch him with his trainees.

Since my own days in the military, it has been my habit to watch procedures of fellow instructors. It is an excellent way learn. What I learned watching Ken was that he was consistent, respectful, knowledgeable, enthusiastic, and you couldn’t ask for a better company representative.

About ten days ago, from the time of this writing, I saw Ken at one of the refineries, and we talked briefly. There had been some driver scuttlebutt about his retiring, and I asked him if it was true.

He said it was, and then he said something uncharacteristic, at least to me. He complained that his employer wouldn’t give him a clothing allowance, that he was expected to buy his own Fire-Retardant Gear, while the drivers in his company were afforded a clothing allowance. “I’m expected to stand out in the rain and the snow with just coveralls, no winter or rain gear, just coveralls,” his words have stuck with me. I’d never heard him complain. I felt he was deeply troubled with how things were going. This guy complaining, this wasn’t him at all. Ken was always pretty upbeat; he’d help anyone that needed help. It didn’t matter who? He held no contempt against competing companies. He was good that way.

A week passed, I saw Ken a few times, at one refinery or another, but we didn’t talk again until after the last weekend.

On Monday, I realized I’d mistakenly tossed away a fuel bill and had to return to the refinery to get another copy. When I got there, I saw Ken sitting in his van. I went in, got my bill, and when I came out, he rolled down his window and said, “Hello, Mark.”

I asked him if he was waiting to load someone.

He said he was turning in his badges.

I asked, “So, this is it, you’re done?”

He replied, “Yes, I’m done.”

I asked, “You’re retiring?”

He replied, “Yes, Mark, I am retiring.”

I shook his hand and said, “I wish I was retiring.”

Ken said something that now leaves me saddened and in to wonder.

He said, “You don’t want to be doing what I’m doing.”

I completely missed it. I suppose I was distracted by my task, needing to get back and fix my error.

I didn’t see anything in Ken’s eyes when I shook his hand.

I wished him well, and he did the same for me, and I was on my way.

Those would be our last words.

I can only assume that Ken handed in all his badges. He was a man who believed in keeping his ducks in a row. I would later learn that he would also send two emails, one a mass mailing to employees of the company he worked for. The other presumably CC to both the Provincial and Federal Health Ministers. That done, Ken Chan drove to the Alberta Legislature, and using a handgun, he took his own life.

I heard about it on the CBC news, but I had no idea it was Ken. I wouldn’t get confirmation until the following day from a couple of friends. Immediately those last words, “You don’t want to be doing what I’m doing,” loom, a prophecy unseen.

And what do we learn from Ken Chan’s death?

What did I learn?

To look and listen a little harder.

But it isn’t just that. We need to understand that while the human psyche can be a place of wonder, of triumph, of happiness. It can also become a dark solitary place that breeds misery and helplessness. I am guessing that Ken was suffering from a severe form of depression, and I know a thing or two about it. I don’t purport to be an expert. After all, I didn’t pick up on the message he was sending.

I can’t express how that saddens me.

I was also privy to the emails Ken sent to his company. He wanted those shared. So, that’s what I’ll tell you a bit about. But I won’t name names or the company. If you want to know about that, I’m sure you can ask around, but I am not going to. In his email, Ken complained about a boss, naming that boss directly, even addressing the individual and making some very damning accusations. Those accusations proven or not, aren’t for me to stand in judgment of, I was not there so I can’t say.

What I can say, from what I have read, is that Ken Chan was a man who felt trapped, abandoned, and betrayed after long service to a company. His complaint about the Fire-Retardant Equipment was a fair one; we work outside in winter climate, sometimes for long hours. Last February, I think it was around -40 Celsius, and that didn’t include wind chill.

He also complained that managers were padding their bonuses at the expense of employees. I can’t speak to that, either way. All I can say in comparison, I work for a much smaller family-run company, and they still provide FR Gear, including winter bib overalls and hard hat liners and parkas.

We need our gear.

And still, the question is begged.

What have we learned? What have I learned?

We need to understand that people can be under an extreme amount of pressure. They could be considering that worst-case scenario. It behooves us to listen, to respect them, to give them the equipment to do their job. Of the grievances, Ken listed in his emails to the bosses, the underlying thing that I think Ken Chan was calling for was respect. I hope that his employers will look long and hard at this, correct mistakes, and if there are policy changes, they are swift, setting a tone of respect in his memory.

Respect.

I think that should be the Ballad of Ken Chan.

Rest Easy, Brother.

Canada's invisible casualties.

In the last month, I lost two friends. And though the circumstances of their passing differed, it still is a reminder that life can be so incredibly unpredictable and short. So, I am not going to talk about my work as a writer in this blog but an issue that is very near and dear to my heart. I'll ask if you indulge me as I recount a bit of personal history and drag out my soapbox and talk about a national tragedy.

I was medically released from the army in 1998. This came after I'd endured three separate leg operations over twelve years. Like many soldiers, I walked on injuries, not wanting to draw attention to weakness, not wanting to be branded “sick lame and lazy.” As a result, I compounded those injuries, and this was when our government was using the Canadian Military as its personal whipping post. Inflicting what I liked to call, "Death by a thousand budget cuts." When I saw that last orthopedic surgeon, and he said to me, we operate again and more scar tissue and blah blah, which amounted to, “Your career is over.”

In May of 1998, just past my 12^th year, I was medically released. As a 33-year-old husband and father with three kids, I was absolutely lost. Lost to what I was going to do. I felt like a failure and robbed of who I was. And though I’d never toured or fired a shot against the enemy I trained to fight, I was still messed up. Having had my identity stripped from me, I was in a state of constant flux. My transition from soldier back to civilian took a couple years, of which I suffered deep bouts of depression. And here’s the clincher, nobody in the civilian world understood. I’m not going to go any deeper into my story as that was not the intent of this blog, but thanks to my wife, friends, and family, I made it out the other side.

Many do not.

Repetitively, the message comes. Buzzing over social media between soldiers serving and retired, disseminating the news, “Have you heard about?” and “They were too young,” asking, “why?” or “how?” but in many cases, all of us know the truth.

Going from soldier to civilian can be as hard or harder than getting out of jail. Aside from the stark contrast of morality between criminals and soldiers, they have one commonality. After spending time in a collective, they both run the risk of becoming institutionalized. You adhere to all sorts of rules. Shave every day, keep your hair well-groomed. In front of subordinates, you can’t complain, you have to lead by example. You are under control of a collective where everyone adheres to the same rules. Where pride and discipline walk hand in hand. Where comradeship is akin is almost family.

The military isn’t a robotic society where the soldiers do their duty to appease whatever demand is laid down and lack emotion or wants. Soldiers adhere to the set standards of military rules and regulations but live life just like their civilian counterparts. They marry, have kids, play hockey, coach their kids in little league. They celebrate life and cultivate deep and meaningful relationships.

Soldiers are a demographic of mothers, fathers, sisters and brothers, and friends. Not much different than everyone else on this planet, but they identify themselves by their dedication to that service. Even after they have retired from it. That stuff doesn’t go away, even when some try in vain to forget it or move on. Most never shed their military skin completely. It becomes permanently stamped on your identity. Four years? Twelve years? Thirty years? It doesn’t matter. Once you have served, you find yourself in an exclusive club.

It isn’t the soldiering; it’s the transition, and many soldiers don’t want to admit that. For fear of perceived weakness or the scrutiny of a critical eye, which is usually their own. It isn’t in their composition to show weakness or admit they need help. Some suffer in silence. Some don’t have the support around them.

Some don’t make it.

That’s the tragedy.

The purpose of a soldier is to protect the nation and its people.

The prerogative of a nation's government is to send those same soldiers to take up arms with strangers in far off lands and engage in battle. Society does not consider the tolls that service can take on soldiers. Some soldiers adjust better than others, but the horror of war is an awful specter, and the mental battle that follows can be a silent killer. As tribal as we are in this world, mankind isn’t programmed to kill each other. That is taught or learned.

But they do so, at the behest of Country, when the call to arms is given.

In Canada, the nation mourns when a soldier makes that final ride along the highway of heroes. We lower flags, stand on bridges, line up roadside, all to catch a fleeting glimpse of our fallen, to pay tribute to them and the sacrifice. It is what I love about this nation and its people. No matter our politics, we all feel it when we lose one of ours, and we stand collectively in mourning. But we are short-sighted in this communal gathering.

We celebrate our dead, but forget the ones who came home. Some missing limbs, some emotionally scarred from the horrors of war. Feeling alienated by a nation that waves the flag but falls deaf and abandons its veterans to homelessness, substance abuse, physical and mental health issues.

The sad news is always buzzing with word that another is gone, fallen through the cracks.

And nothing.

And the flags are waved, the wars resume and promises continue to be broken.

In Canada we send our soldiers into harm's way. We ask so much of them, and they keep stepping up, never questioning, doing their duty, standing with their comrades, giving everything until they have given everything.

And that is when it is our turn to take over. To give back some of what we have taken. Making sure that they have a place in the great nation they have served until their time is up. They are not merely soldiers, but patriots who have kept us safe, who are only asking for our help in their time of need. Meanwhile, our government has the stones to fight them in court over compensation claims. A despicable act by unconscionable bureaucracy.

To my fellow soldiers, serving and retired, we know who we have lost, we understand some of the “why” and we need to keep those lines of communication open. Keep an ear for the brothers and sisters who are suffering. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I am getting pretty sick and tired of losing good people to indifference and ignorance.

If you’re out there and you need help, reach out, support is available.

To my fellow brothers and sisters, watch your arcs.

Pass the word.

And if you want to do something I offer the following link. Below, you can contact your MP and tell them that its time to do the honorable thing! https://www.ourcommons.ca/en/contact-us

Perspective/Writing/Perspective

I've been trying to think what to blog about. Blogging doesn't always come easy for me, because when you're a writer with a day job, there is always so much to do in so little time.

Writing is a tough enough gig on it's own. In my last blog, I told you about my salesmanship. In this blog I'm going to look back at 2012 until now and adjust my writing perspective

When I was young, I wanted to be as big as or bigger than Stephen King. Who didn't? Ah, the young, so idealistic, so virgin to having their hearts ripped out, stamped on, then stuffed back in, only to be ripped out again. But fear not idealists, the great suffering, us writers must endure,  is also a rite of passage to cynicism and venom. Did I mention we turn  these into characters and stories, changing details just enough so as not to be sued?

Highwayman and The Equinox with WildBlue Press

Perspective. I write because it is what I was meant to do. 

Perspective. It's tough and sometimes it can be a cruel industry

Perspective. Writing is an art I both love and hate, but love more than hate.

Perspective. Did I do what I wanted? Sure, and I'm not done yet.

Looking back, I have written my whole life. 

I wrote movie reviews for my hometown paper in Chilliwack, B.C.  Sadly, that little newspaper is gone now. But I got copies in some box somewhere. I wrote of my exploits while serving in the army. I also wrote short stories, received piles of rejections, some mere stubs that said things like, SORRY BUT IT'S NOT FOR US. Turning lemons into lemonade, with plenty of vodka, I opted to use them as book marks. Rejection never deterred me. I took a run at a novel, had the whole thing figured out, but I got posted and promoted and life and kids and duty.

I became a blogger who fought hard for veterans rights when I was medically released in 1998 after 12 years of service.  In 1999, I got behind the wheel of a truck and drove all over the continent. Then in early 2010, I found that half finished manuscript, in a loose leaf binder typed out on an electric Underwood, THE EQUINOX.

That's when I thought, Maybe. 

As 2011 bloomed, I'd seen and done much, in trucking, and I finished THE EQUINOX and headed for Canada's Ice roads in 2012, THE EQUINOX was born. 

Perspective. I've accomplished quite a bit in just eight short years. I have written four books, of which all on the cusp of release just been. Equinox and Highwayman are already available everywhere in almost every format. Acadia Event is being reborn while FOUR: Highwayman Book 2, is also being readied for publication. 

Meanwhile, I've started out a new Highwayman.  Book 3 [No working title yet.]

And there's this other thing.

I've got another straight up horror novel idea that I want to write and the stuff I'm thinking of would resurrect an old short story, but tell the whole story, blow by bloody blow. And you know what, it's got monsters. I love monsters. Doesn't everyone?

As Acadia Event gets ready for its second launch I think Ice roads and aliens.

Anyway, I was talking about perspective and here is my perspective. To continue as a story teller, I gotta keep beating the drum. Doing the interviews, yelling to the crowd, "Read all about it!"

Perspective, writing, in 2019 to 2020, I got four books hitting markets and formats they have never hit before. There's audio for the truckers, digital for the kids or the old folks with Kindle and there's first class covers in 6X9 trade paperback for the traditionalist. I have a publicist. I have a publishing contract. 

People in other countries have read and dug my stuff.

Perspective. That's not bloody bad for seven years.

I like telling stories. 

I hope you like the ones I tell.

Til next time.

MJ