The only thing remotely resembling network television that I have seen in the past 10 years is Joss Whedon’s short-lived sci-fi western series, "Firefly," currently available through the public library. I never got around to seeing it when it was on network television. Frankly, I don’t know if our cable, which has been unplugged for 13 months even got the channel it was on.

In one show, there’s this culminating scene that occurs after the Captain of this spaceship, "Serenity," takes a job pulling a train heist for a very vicious and cold-blooded evil-doer. The crew simply pulls the heist, no questions asked. When things go awry, and they discover that they have stolen medicine from a community plagued by a pervasive mining disease, they cancel the deal, and at their own peril, return the medicine to the Sheriff of the town.

The Sheriff is circumspect.

"Jobs are hard to find out here. Can’t blame a man for taking on one like this. But when you find out what it is you’ve got, well then you have a choice to make."

Mal Reynolds, the captain of Serenity says, "No sir, I don’t believe you have a choice."

Amen, Mal. That’s the best explication of heroism Iíve ever heard. Itís when the path is so clear, so self-evident, that you don’t have a choice. None presents itself. There is no wiggle room. Your heart and spirit align, everything you know calibrates, and you just hope to hell that your legs don’t give out.

Most heroics that I’ve observed happen in the most mundane of circumstances. That’s not to say the astounding courage of war, or serving as a fireman or cop are any less heroic, because they arenít. It’s just that most heroism we don’t read about in the papers.

This week, one of my oldest friends here on the North Shore is receiving an award from the Red Cross. It is called the Enduring Hero award. In every way that I can imagine, Ron is a hero. He’s had a shot at being a front-page hero, having rescued someone from a building that was on fire once.

But that doesn’t endure. Ron was the executive director of a human services agency in Gloucester in the 80s that tackled the heroin addiction problem that was rampant in that city during that time. He worked tirelessly to bring methadone treatment to the city. He was a relentless and thoughtful advocate for the excluded in a deeply troubled city. People with mental illness, addiction. He set up one of the first programs to serve people with HIV and AIDS in that city. He argued persuasively and compassionately for everyone in need, and treated every one as an individual with the dignity they were due.

He helped set up the first program in the state for woman and their kids (and some men and their kids) who were homeless and struggling with addiction. Ron was a visionary in identifying community needs and bringing people together to serve them. When I was a young Executive Director in the mid-80’s Ron was a mentor and role model to me, a wise and gentle leader who was guileless. He provided me with a sounding board and role model for channeling my passion for service into less obnoxious and self-righteous expressions. I miss that.

Amazingly, his office was always open. I’d wait while someone in the methadone program was in there talking about a beef with a nurse; it was not at all unusual for Ron’s lunches to get booked up by clients and colorful members of the Gloucester community; he managed to value them intrinsically in a way that seemed (and still seems) the epitome of grace on earth.

When Ron retired about 10 years ago, it was to write. And write he did. Novels, short stories, essays. Much to my delight, Ron’s first play was accepted and performed at the most recent New Works Festival, as was a play I co-authored. It was like meeting an old friend in an unusual place.

But as gifted a writer and playwright as he is, grace and heroism still dog his steps. He maintains lasting relationships with former clients in Gloucester, and is often unavailable to hang out because he is taking someone to a medical appointment, or walking them through services for a relapse.

He has taken on the guardianship of his brother, who is diagnosed with both schizophrenia and multiple sclerosis.

Heroism is modest. Heroism is not etched boldly in neon. Heroism is doing the right thing, whether anybody is watching or not, because to do anything else is literally inconceivable. Heroism is about the best word I can use to describe Ron Morin. Someday, in some small way, I hope to find the grace to be heroic.

Oh, and if can add three other words, they’d be "damned good playwright."

How cool is it to be able to call your hero a good friend, as well? Bruce Menin lives in Newburyport with his family, from whom he derives the inspiration for the columns he contributes to The Current.