We Are Not Immortal

I got a text at 0142 hrs overnight. That's 1:42 AM for non-military/law enforcement types and, generally, when you get a call or text during times when decent people are home in bed it is not good news.

That was the case early this morning.

Jim Sweat Sr died.

Jim and I had known each other for decades, working side-by-side at Mansfield PD before he went back to the Richland County Sheriff's Office. In our early years we were just acquaintances; as we grew long-in-the-tooth we became friends, often running into one another at high-school sporting events his son....and then his grandson...participated in.

I last saw Jim at just such an event, where he'd told me he was retiring from law enforcement after more than thirty years on the job. "It's time, brother", I responded. "You've put your time in. Relax and enjoy life now." I told Jim that I hadn't regretted being forced to retire due to health reasons, that I now had time to do things I enjoyed.

"Life is short, ain't it?"

"Yes it is, Jim. Just look at what happened to John Wendling."

Jim and I had both worked with John at MPD for many years. John retired in May of 2014 after 46 years behind a badge; he died a scant six months later at age 67.

I'm not sure exactly how long Jim had been retired, but I am fairly certain it was in the ball park of eighteen months. He'd been one of those coppers everyone knew, and had spent most of his career involved with police K9s, either working as a canine officer or training police dogs. He'd worked for the Sheriff's Office long enough to see his son, Jim Jr, get hired on as a deputy and eventually become a Captain, his current position. Jim was very proud of his son's accomplishments, as he well should have been.

Hearing the news of Jim's passing harkened me back to a time when he, I...all the guys I came up with and knew on a personal level...were young men doing a dangerous job. We were go-getters, fire-breathers; we wanted all the action.

We thought we were invincible.

I was reminded, once again, that we are not. Thinking about all the people I've worked with...all the fellow coppers, deputies, troopers, dispatchers...it saddens me that so many are gone now. People like Chuck Norris, who never got to retire; Brian Evans, shot and killed by his own deranged brother; Judy Anderson/Lewis, one of the very first people to befriend me when I started at Mansfield PD; Glenn Sturgill and John Gisclon, both deputies who were killed in the line of duty in Ashland County; Ted Brinley, a deputy for many years and then a fellow patrolman at Ontario PD, killed in an off-duty motorcycle accident. Denny Reid, a gruff-appearing veteran Captain at OPD who was actually a pretty likeable guy; Sam Wade, a former patrol officer at Lexington PD who left the job to become an instructor in the law enforcement program at NCSC. Sam had kept up his certification by remaining as a part-time officer with Lex. He died of heart failure while out deer hunting with his wife. Paul Jones, a long-time chief investigator for the Coroner's Office and one of the funniest guys I ever knew; Rob Maugans, a State Trooper who was one of the most health-conscious guys I knew and a whale of an athlete. Rob died of a brain tumor, one which had been caused by years of exposure to traffic radar waves, when the antenna had been mounted just back of the driver's door on the top of the outside window or on the left side frame of the emergency light rack just above the driver's head. Lt J. D. Moore, an icon to me and also a State Trooper, who died of a heart attack at the Mansfield post; and Harold Scott, a brother who had the biggest arms...and head...of anyone I ever worked with. He had an infectious nature, a good-hearted guy who liked to laugh and play the lottery. The list goes on and on, but I don't have the time to include all the ones who are gone.

And now, Jim Sweat Senior joins that group.

We are not immortal, as we thought when we were young men.