Semantics, Generations and Society

Please forgive the extended absence...we've had a lot happening lately.

Have you ever noticed how, as you've progressed through life, words and titles change, yet still have basically the same meaning?

For instance, a doctor's office or medical complex is now a 'wellness center'. Same place but different title. 'Wellness' implies 'good', kind of gives us a warm and fuzzy feeling. Instead of asking 'how's your health?' maybe we should ask, 'how's your wellness?'

Personnel managers are now 'human resources officers'....as opposed to 'inhuman resources'?

Maintenance departments are now 'operations centers'. People who work in operations still wax the company floors and mow the company grass.

The examples are endless.

During the War on Terror, there are no 'combat reporters'; they are 'embedded journalists.' Regardless of the title, they still get shot at right along with the troops they are annoying. Side note: none of the embedded newsies today can hold a candle to the great Ernie Pyle, who was a war correspondent in the Pacific theater during WW II. Pyle was killed in combat during the Battle of Okinawa in 1945. Being so highly respected by the troops he covered, he was interred in the National Memorial Cemetery of the Pacific in Honolulu...with his helmet. Pyle was also awarded a posthumous Purple Heart, a very rare occurrence for a civilian.

Which brings me to generational labels. Pyle was a part of America's 'Greatest Generation'; since then, we've had Baby Boomers, generations X and Y...and now Millennials. In my personal opinion, each generation has gotten a little weaker as far as societal standards and moral direction. Need an example? The old TV show 'Ozzie and Harriet'. When they'd shoot a scene that took place in the parental bedroom, they always depicted Mom and Dad as sleeping in separate beds. Always. Now? It's not uncommon to see partial nudity in bedroom scenes on television.

As part of the Baby Boomer generation, we grew up in a much different world. Cell phones, selfies, the internet, social media...they didn't exist. If we rode bikes we didn't do it wearing helmets; if we crashed and got scraped up, Mom would douse the wound with mercurochrome and slap a band-aid on it, good as new. We weren't rushed to the wellness center for an MRI or CT scan, where the medical staff could quite possibly report the parents to social services for child neglect because the kid wasn't wearing a bike helmet.

Don't even broach the subject of discipline. We didn't have 'time outs'; we had Dads with belts or Moms with switches.

...and the world would be a better place today if society still had them.

Self-Inflicted Wounds

I don't sleep much, averaging around five hours a night; arthritis in the shoulders and metal in the lower back see to that. As Dick Marcincko said in one of his books, 'Pain lets you know you're still alive.'

Awakening to this reminder of life at 0430, I made my usual breakfast of oatmeal (containing a tablespoon of peanut butter) and a non-fat yogurt, to go along with my Tim Horton's black gold, and retired to the recliner to browse the TV menu.

'Destroyed In Seconds' on Discovery caught my attention; this show depicts all sorts of disasters and accidents caught on video, so this would be my breakfast entertainment. Hey, it beats reading the back of the oatmeal box, right?

I was struck, while watching, by the number of avoidable incidents the show depicted. Things like earthquakes and hurricanes happen, you can't prevent them, but the number of people hurt by performing less-than-intelligent, unnecessary stunts was dumbfounding. That's saying something, coming from a guy who spent 31 years dealing with the public's problems.

For instance, the guy performing stunts on his motorcycle on a public highway as his buddy rides behind him, filming. He lost control in a high-speed wobble, went down and slammed into a car parked on the berm, all caught on tape. He suffered a broken arm and spine, but he survived.

The amateur stunt rider was lucky, though he suffered a painful price; others in the program weren't as fortunate.

It got me to thinking about the title of the program and how it can apply to events in our lives; a moment of pleasure or daring destroying our lives, literally in seconds. Allowing external influences to overcome our common sense, we have often made straight-out dumb moves or judgements. Some of those can do or has done irreparable damage, either physically, emotionally or both.

Though my life wasn't destroyed, Lord knows I've made my fair share of short-sighted, spur-of-the-moment decisions, most of them when I was a younger man. Its by the grace of God I am even here to realize those facts. For instance, my cousin and I thought it would be a good idea to walk out to the middle of a twin-tracked railroad bridge spanning the Ohio River; we discovered an access ladder that led down to the top of the central support buttress, about ten feet below the rail support timbers. That's where we were when a 100-car coal train rolled by mere feet above our heads, shaking the entire structure so badly I was sure it would come apart and throw us to certain death into the river a hundred feet below.

There's an excuse for that one, though, albeit weak: I was 14 years old. Kids and teens don't see danger nearly as well as adults, but that little trek could easily have cost us our lives. I told my parents about that one thirty-five years after the fact; Mom still wanted to take a belt to me.

The worst of the wounds we cause aren't the ones to ourselves, though, but rather to those we love. I've been on both ends of that scenario and, in both incidences, the emotional pain was just as intense as any physical pain could have been. Somewhere along the lines of both alcohol was involved.

I stopped drinking a long time ago, one of the best decisions of my life. The pain I had been causing to both myself and those I cared about was destructive. I took care of me first, which also took care of those close to me and, as a by-product, terminated other problems. Unfortunately, when the other side of a partnership refuses to acknowledge that a significant issue exists in their life, you can't fix it for them. They're far too busy revelling in their imagined glory to really take a look at themselves and see it.

What do you do? You move on. Impulsive behavior, in most cases, is going to cause damage somewhere in your life or someone else's, either immediately or down the road. Damage that appears later will always be at an unexpected time. Believe me on this one; experience is a great teacher.

Learn from your mistakes. Listen to those who have gone through some tough times of their own making.

STOP hurting yourself.

Truth In Advertising....Or Lack Thereof

When a realtor lists a foreclosed home and the first three words are "move-in ready"...beware. Chances are very high that it is not. Listing a home as MIR does NOT mean having to install a heat source, septic system and digging a new well because there is no water.

There's a security system commercial that is shown frequently on television; in this commercial, criminals are shown slowly creeping towards a home, intent on stealing something. The doorbell, which is also a security camera, allows the absent homeowner to see their approach and warn them off. The catch? This company follows the line of thinking that infests insurance companies and other home security advertisers on TV...every criminal in these commercials is caucasian. That's not racist, just fact. Watch and see for yourself. To those of us that enforced the law for a living, though, it goes like this: we're blue, and then there's everyone else. Race doesn't matter. A criminal is a criminal is a criminal, period.

On social media today I saw a poll; I won't go into what it involved, but you had to click a link to vote. Then, after you cast your vote, a pop-up asking for your credit card info appears because they want you to donate to their website...you know, so they can keep running their polls online. If you don't donate, your vote isn't recorded.

"If you like your doctor, you can keep your doctor." We all remember that lie, don't we? Well, now the Ohio Police and Fire Pension Fund is telling their own version of that fib. We were all told that retired members would receive a monthly stipend to offset the cost of health insurance, as OPF wouldn't be providing health insurance for its members as of January 1, 2019. As it turns out, that stipend will only be provided if a member enrolls in one of four Medical Mutual coverages; in other words, we can't shop for our own insurance...which would without doubt be cheaper and offer more coverage that the MM policies. Oh, and as for keeping my doctors? Under Medical Mutual, every one of my physicians, from my family doctor to my cancer surgeon in Columbus, is out-of-network. MM pays nothing if I have to see one of them. NOTHING.

THAT is outrageous, and I'm still three years away from Medicare eligibility.

Endeth the rant.

One Veteran

One veteran carried three wounded Marines, one at a time and under heavy fire, to safety after being caught in a Vietnamese ambush, only to collapse from exhaustion. He regained consciousness inside a body bag because the corpsmen thought he was dead.

One veteran fought to get to a trapped soldier inside BOQ 3 in Saigon, along with 14 other military policemen, during TET; only one other of his rescue group survived. Once inside the building, he watched as a Communist B-40 rocket exploded in the doorway, vaporizing one man and wounding everyone else inside, including himself.

One veteran charged ashore during the D-Day invasion at Normandy, under intense German machine gun fire, on June 6, 1944.

One veteran was captured, along with most of his company, behind German lines and held in the infamous Stalag XI B, a brutal prisoner-of-war camp, until being liberated 4 months later by a British armored column.

One veteran survived being shot down while piloting helicopters on five different occasions.

One veteran survived despite being so badly wounded by mortar fragments that corpsmen loaded him aboard a chopper that was carrying out dead soldiers.

One veteran survived aboard ship despite five Japanese kamikaze attacks in the South Pacific.

One veteran, as he exited a bunker while under attack by North Korean artillery fire, was wounded in the legs. His rifle was blown in half.

One veteran survived a mortar round explosion that blew him into the air, peppering both arms and legs with shards of metal; his life was spared because the flak jacket he'd been given just days before absorbed fragmented pieces that would have killed him.

One veteran, whose job was to remove wounded soldiers from battlefields, was wounded by a mortar round while carrying a badly injured soldier to safety. His unit suffered 50% casualties in Italy.

One veteran survived being wounded by grenade shrapnel from a Communist booby-trap that another Marine had triggered. He then was shot twice.

One veteran survived an exploding North Vietnamese rocket, taking a jagged steel fragment in his back. It killed the medic behind him.

One veteran took out a North Korean tank that had overrun their position with a bazooka.

One veteran left high school his senior year to enlist in the Navy; as his destroyer was under Japanese kamikaze attack in the Pacific, he shot one of the planes out of the sky with the 20-millimeter antiaircraft gun he manned.

That veteran, who never received his high school diploma, will be presented with it tomorrow at his alma mater in front of the current student body.

And I'll have the honor and privilege of introducing him.

THANK YOU, VETERANS!

Mindset

The alarm goes off right in the middle of a dream...or maybe you're so sound asleep that there is no dream. You roll over, reach out and your hand hovers above the 'snooze' button.

What you do next, that miniscule little moment of decision, can set the tone for the rest of your day.

It forms your mindset, frames your approach to everything you're going to do until you slip back between the sheets at bedtime.

The lure of a few more moments in that warm bed can be strong, can't it? Its powerful, that urge to doze a few more minutes, but does it have power over you? A study done by some think-tank on the taxpayers' dimes says that there's eighteen seconds to decide whether you hit that button or get out of bed and into the day.

I don't think its anywhere near 18 seconds. I can't recall the last time an alarm woke me up because I'm generally hitting the 'brew' button on the coffee maker right around 0430 hrs.

Why arise that early? There's things to get done, tasks to start or finish.

We generally have an idea of what the day ahead may entail, but we also know no two days are ever the same. There's too many variables, too many 'Murphy' moments that can occur. You get in the shower only to discover there's no water due to an overnight line break. Car won't start or you notice a tire with low air. It snowed while you were sleeping and the roads are slick. One of the kids wakes up sick. Your elbow bumps the coffee cup, splashing its contents all over your shirt. Caught in traffic because of a wreck that has the highway snarled.

That extra five minutes in bed put you that far behind.

Your mindset, your approach to life in general, can be what sets you apart. The snooze button? That was a rather mundane illustration but it fits the topic. We all have tasks we don't like but they have to be done, right? A former Navy SEAL and founder of SEAL Team Six, Dick Marcinko, says, "you don't have to like it, you just have to do it." I don't know how many times I said that to my boys when they were growing up, but I'm sure they'll recite it to their kids too.

Get it done. Attack those uninteresting or unavoidable tasks and put them behind you.  Don't procrastinate, not even for a day, because it just makes it easier to put things off in the future. Don't rationalize, incentivize. Give yourself a little reward for completing a job.

Like maybe hitting the snooze button tomorrow morning.

Rid Yourself Of Subconscious Stress

The worst kind of stress or tension you have in your life is the kind you don't even know about.

Take some time for you and only you. Seek solitude. Shut off the phone, the TV, the radio, the internet and get away from people. Find a quiet place with no distractions. Take a walk in the woods, sit by a river or lake and just be by yourself, just for a little while. It doesn't have to be a daily event, or even weekly, but you need to make time for yourself.

Its amazing then, at those times, how clearly you can hear that still, small voice that should be guiding your life. I say 'should' because we allow the clutter of daily life to all too often drown out that voice; when we allow that to happen, when we permit the static and noise of things that cloud our judgement strangle that voice, stress is created. Tensions mount. Problems are magnified.

Choose, at times, to be alone. Refresh your spirit. Drain your mind of those things causing your storms.

And seek the voice of God.

Another Strange But True Police Tale

A few decades ago, while working at a small department, our Watch Commander on nights, Frank, was a very demanding sort, one who wanted things done his way and his way only. To that end, when Frank decided to divide our village into northern and southern halves, one of us would be assigned to each side with specific responsibilities…mainly performing building security checks.

Frank wanted our businesses checked several times throughout the shift; there’d been a rash of businesses burglarized  throughout the county and this was a tactic he’d utilize to make it tougher for the criminals to hit us in the village.

Checking buildings, when you’re not otherwise occupied, can get very tedious, not to mention down right boring. Occasionally one of us would find a business’s door unlocked, but those times were few and far between. Frank had gotten it into his head that Paul and I weren’t shaking any doors since we weren’t finding very many open so, one night before we left the station to start our patrol routine, he made an announcement to both of us.

“Before I came in tonight, I marked six business doorknobs…three north and three south…with ketchup; your job will be to find those doors and notify me which ones they were at the end of the shift.”

I have to be honest, this was a little ridiculous; we’re grown men, enforcing the law, carrying the power of life and death on our hips in the form of sidearms and charged with making a split-second decision, should it ever come to that, on whether or not to use that power…yet he couldn’t trust us that we were checking the security of the village’s businesses?

After about the third night of this, I formulated a tactic of my own, employing it to good measure. When the time came to go on station for the end of our shift, I informed Frank that I’d found not one, not two….but SEVEN business door knobs marked with ketchup, and told him which ones they were.

“But that can’t be, young man…I only marked three!”

“Well, LT, you can go out and check for yourself because I didn’t clean them off.” We were supposed to carry napkins and wipe the doors clean after finding his markings. I didn’t do it on this night, with purpose; I’d made a stop of my own on the way to work to get a fast-food burger…and a big handful of ketchup packets.

The next night, not only did I mark a few extra in my end of the village, but also on his end ( Paul was on nights off, meaning the WC would be out shaking doors), which perplexed him mightily. The next night, same thing…only I added a little mustard to his end of the village, too. When I was on nights off, I made it a point to go out about two hours before their shift began and leave some ketchup and mustard on business doorknobs throughout the village; this way, the same thing was happening even when I was off. (Good thing I lived close to the village, huh?)

It wasn’t too long after that that we stopped reporting our condiment findings before gearing down after our shift, and Frank never said another word about it.

I think he got the message.

*** Names were changed to protect the identity of officers involved

When Death Became Real

"No one here gets out alive" - Jim Morrison

Death is inevitable. It's a part of life. In the United States, a death occurs every twelve seconds, amounting to 7,452 every day. In the time its taken you to read this, someone, somewhere in the country, passed on.

That's pretty morbid stuff, yet so common....until it hits home.

Death has impacted all of us at one time or another; for many of us, several times. We've lost grandparents. parents, brothers, sisters, sons, daughters or spouses. It is a terrible tragedy, losing a loved one, but a tragedy we've all faced.

Normally, its the grandparents first. That's just a fact of life. I remember losing my first grandparent, Grandma Clark, on Christmas Eve of 1965. No time is a good time to lose family, but Christmas time, in my opinion, is the worst. It sucks the joy out of the holiday. Instead of celebrating the birth of Christ into the world, we grieve loss.

I'd lost two of my grandparents prior to 1974; my Grandpa Clark died in November of 1973. While losing them was terrible, it was inevitable because they were elderly.

Losing a classmate when I was fifteen years old, a guy I'd played baseball with, was when death became all too real. It was a shocking event because we were just kids. Dying in high school just isn't supposed to happen. Ever.

Jim had just gotten his driver's license and tooled around in a VW Beetle. It had to be amazing, having that freedom, a day we all looked forward to. Independence carried in your wallet.

Back then there was no seat belt law, no restrictions on who could be in the car with you, or when, save for rules parents put in place.

Mansfield-Washington and Hull Roads intersect on the downhill side between two rises and is a nearly-blind intersection, a hazardous stretch of road for an experienced driver. On the night of his accident, Jim was driving with three of his Madison classmates in the car after dark, approaching the intersection.

And it was foggy.

Though time has robbed me of details, there was a terrible collision in the intersection; Jimmy suffered severe head trauma, one of the kids in the back seat sustained a broken hip and I think a third passenger broke a wrist. Jim's injuries were by far the worst.

He was in the intensive care unit of Mansfield General Hospital, as it was called back then. After hearing of this terrible event, I called ICU and they told me he was in critical condition; there were no HIPAA laws back then, either. The next day I went up to see him; unbelievable (by today's standards), they led me to his darkened room, and what I saw was the biggest shock of my then-young life: a form laying in a hospital bed, head heavily bandaged, monitors both above and beside where he lay. On the other side of his bed a machine, its hose snaking to Jim's mouth, breathed artificially for my friend. I don't know how long I stood in the doorway in stunned silence; I do remember the nurse tugging at my arm, leading me away.

I went home and cried.

Two days later I called the unit to check on Jim's condition. The nurse who answered the phone, when I inquired about him, seemed very nonchalant when she replied, "I'm sorry, but he expired."

Expired, as if she were talking about a gallon of milk.

I don't remember if the school excused those of us that went to Jim Norris' funeral; thinking back, I can't imagine they wouldn't have. I just recall how somber the service was, surreal as it ran its course. I didn't go to the cemetery because I knew it would have been terrible, watching them lower my red-headed friend, who had always seemed to have a smile, into the ground. I waited six months to visit his burial site, and I stood staring at the plaque with his name on it. I still hadn't accepted the fact he was gone.

Today, nearly 45 years later, its still hard to believe.

In the years between that event and 2013, when I retired from police work, I came to see death on a fairly regular basis, in all manner and form, taking infants through the very elderly. Much like that nurse on the phone so many years ago I, as have many of those I worked with and those who protect and serve today, formed the hard shell around my emotions. Its a shell that keeps you sane, helps the psyche stay intact and functioning. Its a necessity, an integral part of equipment for coppers, the same as a ballistic vest or gun belt, tools you don't go without. Its not that you don't care, as some would think; its because police officers inherently care too much, an emotion that can profoundly affect job performance as well as family life.

I've lost some of the hardness of my shell over the last five years, as the job has receded in my personal rear-view mirror, but vestiges of the shell still remain with me.

As does the memory of my Madison High School classmate, Jimmy Norris.

This Week's Bizarre Police Tale

Police in Hanahan, South Carolina were called to an apartment complex Monday night in response to a 911 complaint of a woman attempting to remove a male victim's genitals.

With her teeth.

"It's one of the worst body cam videos  I've seen in my career," said HPD Chief  Dennis Turner. "It honestly reminded me of something you would see from off a horror movie."

Officers arrived at the apartment to find two men, one suffering wounds to his manhood, and a woman, who was naked and spattered with blood. The woman began crawling aggressively on all fours towards the police officers, who then subdued her with a Taser.

The two men and the woman had been engaged in sexual intercourse when the attack occurred.

The woman was later administered Narcan, as it was found she was under the influence of heroin and methamphetamine, and then transported to a local hospital.

As of this date, no charges have been filed.

It is unknown if the male victim sought treatment....or will have need to consult with a plastic surgeon.

Check back every Friday for a new bizarre police tale.

Who's Stopping You? You Are.

Fear. Phobia. Apprehension.

Regret.

We fear what we don't know. Fear can keep us from goals, dreams and desires, and from confronting problems and issues. Phobias allow unreasonable elevation of our fears Our apprehensions make us take pause and hesitate to move forward.

Then the regret sets in. We'll 'what if?' the rest of our lives because we were afraid, once upon a time, to confront our fear. Then comes self-doubt and, maybe, self-loathing. Don't do that to yourself. Have some respect for you.

So how do we overcome our fears?

We take that first step toward them. That's it. Simple as that. Make that first move forward.

We can educate ourselves, strive to determine what is causing us that fear. Is it fear of failure? You failed. So what. You won't be the first person in the history of mankind to fail at something. The key is what you do next. Prepare for that step the best way you can. Study that fear, have a reasonable idea of what it'll require of you to overcome it and go right back at it.

Don't allow fear to defeat you. You get back up, dust yourself off, figure out what went wrong and take that step again only, this time, you'll have a better understanding of what you're stepping into.

You want that dream, that goal or desire? Don't let fear stop you.

Run that sucker down.

Get Off The Treadmill

No, not the one that's keeping you healthy.

The one that's keeping you stationary in life.

Let's face facts for a moment: most of us get out of bed, go through a morning routine, work, come home to another routine for a few hours and then go to bed. That cycle repeats every twenty-four hours for five days, with maybe a few variables.

No wonder we look forward to weekends so much, but even those can have their very own cycles too, right?

It gets to be monotonous, a drag, smothering your life aside from those few variables. You're running in place on life's treadmill when you want to move forward and higher. You can't see an endpoint, the time in your life when you can stop running and start enjoying.

Trust me, that day is coming.

In the meantime, though, how do you step off that platform of everyday mundaneness? Of the mindless 'rinse-and-repeat' cycle? CAN you throw the change-up instead of another fastball?

I'm not advocating a total life change; that's a pretty big gamble, especially if you have loved ones depending on you at home. You can't act on chance and risk losing something you can't afford to lose.

Break up that cycle to whatever extent is acceptable. Take your wife or husband out to dinner unexpectedly in the middle of the week. Have a family night at the movies. Go through the attic and donate unused or unneeded items to those less fortunate. Volunteer a few hours at a local food bank.

Have something in mind you've always wanted to try, but haven't? Do it. Read a book...or write one. Build something. It doesn't have to be intricate or expensive. Dig a hole, line it with bricks and stack a few rows of pavers around it. Now you have a fire pit. Refinish the old table sitting in the basement that Grandma gave you and make it functional again.

Do something a little different every week. Break the monotony by stepping into unfamiliar territory outside your comfort zone. Change something...anything...

...and stop complaining about the treadmill.

Flaunting Stupidity

There's 'lack of intelligence and common sense'.....and then there's just plain stupid.

Take North Charleston, South Carolina's Deandre Stevens, for instance.

The 20-year-old Stevens was arrested in connection to an armed robbery in the parking lot of a Walmart back on January 4 of 2016. He and two accomplices arranged to sell fake marijuana to 16-year-old Zarmell Polite in the parking lot, using the ruse to lure the juvenile and then rob him.

Surveillance video from the mega-store's security cameras show Stevens and his henchmen arriving in a car; a short time later, Polite shows up. Stevens and one of his sidekicks exit the car as Polite climbs in the back seat with the third man to do the deal.

Then it all goes south.

Polite is shown staggering out of the car, turning and firing a weapon into the vehicle's rear seat, killing would-be armed robber Larry Grayer, who was eighteen. Police investigators ruled Polite's actions as self-defense because Grayer had pulled a gun on Polite inside the car. 

Stevens and the remaining accomplice, 18-year-old Aliyah Young, were charged with armed robbery; They both also faced accessory-to-murder because Grayer died during their ill-fated crime. Stevens' bond was set at $200,000.

He posted bond. Then he took stupidity to a personal high-water mark.

Broadcasting on a Facebook livestream, Stevens used twenty minutes to threaten the brother of Zarmell Polite, referring to him as a snitch and pointing a handgun at the webcam. He also allegedly used drugs during the broadcast.

 Stevens also offered Xanax for sale on social media.

Using the social media video and screen captures from Stevens' less-than-stellar decision, prosecutors pressed Stevens' attorney, Bradford Andrews, for a 'guilty' plea to the armed robbery charge in exchange for a less-than-maximum prison term; Andrews argued in front of a judge for a ten-year sentence, citing his client's youth and lack of criminal history.

Armed robbery and accessory to murder. Go big or go home.

Deandre Stevens accepted the plea deal, supported by his family. He was sentenced to fifteen years in prison.

Deandre Stevens

Professional Courtesy:. Politicians

In bygone days, a cop didn't issue a summons for every violation or traffic stop. We exercised an option called 'professional courtesy.'

In this option, we used empathy and a little common sense, traits that are becoming increasingly difficult  to find in the law enforcement community these days.

I have occasion to come in contact with the public quite often in the capacity of 'writer'; when I discover a veteran for potential interview, for example, I'll often give them a little of my background in the process, hoping they'll be a little more at ease talking with me.

And, quite often, I'll hear a story of a bad experience they once had with law enforcement.

The words most often heard are 'rude', 'unbending', uncaring' and 'arrogant'. The biggest word in that group, at least to me, is 'arrogant'. Think about it, a time when someone treated you as if they were better than you or spoke down to you.

Not a very good feeling, was it?

Young coppers today need to realize that the citizens pay their salaries, and that they have problems just like the policemen do...most times, worse problems. A citation or traffic ticket should be a last resort, depending on the severity of a violation.

Rent, car payment. medical bills, school clothes, upcoming holidays, utilities, insurance...none of that comes cheaply unless you're still living in Mom and Dad's basement.

Courtesy goes a long way in police/community relationships.That is a key. Give someone a break, do something good for someone and I guarantee they'll remember it.

Sometimes, that good will comes back at an odd angle.

Early on in my career, I was working a day shift in which it was snowing like crazy; it was slick and difficult to see. As I'm going through a business area on the two-lane road, I noticed a car that was having trouble entering the roadway from an unplowed business lot, its wheels spinning madly. As I'm almost passing by, the rear wheels caught and the car shot out in front of me, nearly causing a collision with my cruiser.

I stopped the car, seeing the driver's window come down as I approach on foot. I recognized the man immediately; he was the mayor of a neighboring municipality. The man was very apologetic, saying he would totally understand  if I needed to cite him. I told the mayor that a citation wouldn't be necessary, asking only that he drive more carefully. The mayor thanked me and drove off.

A week later, our city's mayor walked into the police department, a councilman in tow. Upon seeing me, in his best politician voice, he tells me, 'Officer Clark, I want you to know that I just got a call from Mayor (X); he told me you stopped him last week and extended some professional courtesy, which impressed him greatly. He spoke so highly of you that I'm considering giving you a commendation...'.

My blood pressure shot through the ceiling. More on that in a minute.

I responded, "Well, Mayor, I look at it this way: a pat on the back sometimes is just a high kick in the butt."

That shocked him; his face immediately turned beet-red. The Mayor did an about-face and marched out of the department, councilman following right behind him. That was the last time the Mayor ever spoke to me, as I'd leave to take a job at Mansfield PD a few months later.

Why had I responded in such manner?

A couple of months earlier, while working nights, another officer and myself apprehended half of a four-man, multistate burglary ring that specialized in hitting farm implement stores. These mopes, out of Columbus, had shot out the security lights in the rear of the store, cut a hole in the property's perimeter fence and broken into an unalarmed building used to store excess stock. They'd piled up crates of unassembled bicycles, stacks of tires, cases of oil and leather gloves, anything of value that they could fence for cash. The stolen property amounted to thousands and thousands of dollars.

A dayshift officer, assigned to do follow-up on felony offenses, later told us that he'd called Columbus PD's detective bureau to get a little more information on these criminals we'd caught. The CPD detective told him that they'd been after these guys for over a year, and that one of the men we'd arrested had made a comment that he'd kill the next police officer that tried to arrest him. CPD investigators said this ring was tied to burglaries/thefts in Indiana, Ohio and Kentucky.

What did we hear from the Chief or the Mayor after such a high-profile arrest?

Nothing. Nada. Not a peep. We'd just been doing our jobs.

Yet this Mayor, a few months later, wants to commend me for giving a politician a break on a traffic violation.

The neighboring Mayor had been no threat, hadn't commented that he'd kill the next officer he came in contact with, like career criminal and convicted felon James Baer had.

A commendation for being courteous....which, too, was part of the job. While it was a kind gesture for Mayor X to express his gratitude, I'd probably been wrong to respond the way I had, but our Mayor's comments chafed me. My 'commendation' came when both men were convicted and sent to prison.

The feeling I got from knowing my partner and I had sent these mopes to prison was worth much more to me than a suitable-for-framing piece of paper with a nicely-worded 'attaboy'.

Remembering A Past Manhunt

Friday, April 13th, 1984.

That's the day my friend and Brother of the Badge, Richland County Sheriff's Deputy Ed Ernsberger, was shot by an escaped convict.

I was working at Ontario PD at the time, just a few months before I would leave to become a member of the Mansfield Police Department. I can't tell you what I was doing when I'd heard Ed had been shot, but I can tell you about what I did the next day.

I was part of a manhunt, along with two of my co-workers at Ontario PD, Ted Brinley and Mike Burchett.

Ed was the resident deputy up in Shiloh, as I recall, partnered with K9 Bear...a huge Rottweiler. Ed responded to a 'suspicious person' complaint, called in by a citizen due to an escaped prisoner from the Ohio State Reformatory earlier that week. Ed found the mope, not being sure if it was the escapee or not....turns out it was.

As Deputy Ernsberger patted the man, Mark Manley, down, the convict turned and began fighting with Ed. Manley gained control of the deputy's .357 magnum and shot him in the sternum, Ernsberger's bulletproof vest saving him from certain death. As Manley lined the downed officer up for a head shot, Bear exited the cruiser and charged Manley, causing his shot to miss.

Bear took three rounds in all; Ed took a second shot just above the arm hole in the side of his vest, which then glanced off his shoulder blade.

Knowing Manley had fired all six rounds from Ed's revolver, the wounded deputy attempted to re-enter his cruiser to get the shotgun from its rack. Manley jumped on the deputy inside the cruiser and began pistol-whipping him, just as the shotgun rack lock released. The convict wrestled the shotgun away from Ed, who then had the presence of mind to put his cruiser in gear and roar away from the scene.

Mark Manley, who had been incarcerated for felonious assault on a police officer, escaped the area with Ed's 12 gauge.

Ed survived his wounds; miraculously, so did Bear the Rottweiler; she carried those three slugs until she died several years later.

As you'd imagine, a massive manhunt ensued, with officers from every agency in Richland county, and some from neighboring counties as well as state agencies, taking part. Helicopters and aircraft, both police and civilian, took part in the hunt for Manley.

Back to Brinley, Burchett and I.

We'd been searching a woodline somewhere in the boonies for most of the day; the passage of time has robbed me of exactly where we were. As the three of us were walking through a field toward  where we'd parked the cruisers, we noticed a truck from WBNS-TV out of Columbus parked nearby, a man with a camera on his shoulder filming the area. At one point I made some kind of remark to Ted, who was walking beside me, and he playfully smacked me in the back of the head as we all three laughed.

Of course, that clip made the six-o'clock news.

Manley was found a week and a half later by a teenager walking in the woods, the would-be cop killer dead of a self-inflicted shotgun blast, Ed's shotgun laying beside him.

A fitting end.

My friend Ed is still around, and we keep in touch through social media; we really need to get coffee one day and catch up face-to-face.

Mikey B, as I've called him for decades, is retired and living on a farm in rural Ashland county,a survivor of cancer that nearly took him from us. He's also an accomplished musician, playing stand-up bass fiddle in a bluegrass band.

Ted Brinley, one of the funniest guys I've ever known, died the following year from injuries sustained in a motorcycle accident; I was honored to have been one of his pallbearers. I woke this morning thinking about Ted and that afternoon walking through the field with my friends

This past week's manhunt for fugitive Shawn Christy, which dominated the news for several days, ended on a good note, as he was apprehended without incident near Camp Mowana off US 42. Christy had been wanted for threatening to kill the President and a prosecutor in Pennsylvania. He'll now face justice for his threats.

I'm quite sure the Christy manhunt sparked the dream of that past manhunt so many decades ago, and the memories of Ed, Bear, Mikey B and Ted.

...and that dang video clip playing on the evening news.

You can read Ed's story here: https://www.ohiopolicek9memorial.com/k9-bear-richland-county.html

Ed Ernsberger and Bear

A Fun Day And Reliving The Past

This past Sunday I had the opportunity to take my grandson Butch for a visit to the police department where I spent most of my law enforcement career: Mansfield PD.

Butch, being an inquisitive five-year-old, had asked me once about being a policeman: I'd given him a thumbnail sketch of the job, then drove by 30 North Diamond and pointed out the city building, where Papaw used to work. I knew what his next comment would be.

"Can we stop, Papaw?"

That was last fall. I wanted his first encounter with the world in which I once lived, where a part of me still remains, to be special, one he'll remember long after I'm gone. I told him we'd stop another time.

That time was last Sunday.

Thanks to my friend and brother in blue. Korey Kaufman, it was a very special visit. For those that don't know him, Korey is a combat-hardened Marine veteran with a heart of gold. He's also one of several K9 handlers at Mansfield PD and currently works day watch. I figured a Sunday morning would be a good time to schedule Butch's visit as , usually, calls-for-service run a little slower because most mopes are still in bed after a hard Saturday night doing whatever it is they do.

Butchie got to meet Korey's partner, Denise, a lively Belgian malinois who he said loves kids. I thoroughly enjoyed watching my wide-eyed grandson slowly shed his shyness and interact with Korey as he was shown how all the bells and whistles work inside a police car.

Yep, even the siren.

I documented the visit by taking photos and video of the occasion, Butch smiling the entire time. Then we ventured up to the radio room, or dispatch center, or whatever they call it now, and my long-time friend LaWanda met my little man. Butch ended his visit there by hugging her; she's a real sweetheart and LaWanda is one of the best dispatchers I ever worked with. Ever.

As we drove home, Butch told me about his favorite part as he sat strapped into his child  seat; I don't think he stopped talking about Denise and seeing her 'attack' the bite-sleeved arm of Officer Rich Clapp until we pulled into the garage at home.

I didn't hear everything he said, though; my head was somewhere else.

My mind had wandered back about twenty-five years or so, to a time when my sons Travis and Tyler were little guys. I'd occasionally take them with me if I had to run to the PD for something. They, too, had been wide-eyed back then, and it wasn't at all uncommon for some of the guys I worked with to rough-house with them or snatch them up in a bear-hug, the boys laughing as my brothers made them feel at ease in our rough domain. It seemed everyone on the department had kids back then, mostly all of us considering each other family to one degree or another, and our kids were part of that family.

I surely hope that atmosphere still exists, because much in my former world has changed.

My Generation's Pearl Harbor Event

Throughout this nation, America pauses to remember events that forever changed our world on this date, altering the trajectory of freedoms as we once knew them.

Everyone old enough to remember can tell you exactly where they were and what they were doing when they learned that American Airlines flight 11, out of Boston and bound for Los Angeles, had inexplicable changed course, altitude and speed and eventually slammed into the north tower of the World Trade Center at about 0846 local time.

What had begun as a picture-perfect day, with comfortable temperatures and crystal-blue skies across much of the nation, evolved into one of the darkest in America's history.

Initially, most news outlets reported the plane crash as a terrible aviation accident, caused when a small private plane inexplicably flew into the north tower, striking it between floors 93 and 99.

America was shocked by this unfortunate 'error' by the plane's pilot. However, as the minutes passed and local New York broadcast media began showing aerial shots of the massive damage, it became evident that it was not caused by a private aircraft. It had been something much larger...a commercial jetliner.

Pundits were putting forth conjectured scenarios as to how such an event could have occurred, none of them making any sense, when, on live television, United Airlines flight 175 streaked into the south tower of the World Trade Center at 0902 hours.

The innocence of my generation ended at that very moment. Our nation was under obvious terrorist attack from an as-yet unknown enemy.

The Pentagon in Washington was also struck by a hijacked commercial jetliner; only by the brave and heroic actions of those aboard was United flight 93 diverted from its intended target and crashed into a field in Somerset county, Pennsylvania.

In the years since, we've learned who that enemy was, how they accomplished three-quarters of their mission, who planned and who funded their operations. We've learned the names of the thousands who perished in those buildings and aircraft, the 343 New York City Fire Department personnel, the thirty-three NYPD officers, the paramedics and those that have died since that day due to injury or cancer contracted while attempting to rescue survivors who may have been trapped in the twin towers' rubble after their collapse.

America's patriot heroes have waged war on those who perpetrated and celebrated events of that day...and continue to do so even now. Let us not forget the warriors who have made the ultimate sacrifice combating radical Islamic jihadists who seek to do us more harm, right here in our homeland.

We as a people, the American people, must be ever vigilant.

And we must never forget.

NFL Player Protests Have It All Wrong

Warning: this post may offend you.

Imagine, if you will, a world in which every living being on this planet is happy. There are no conflicts, no us-versus-them, no left, no right, everybody is living in peace and harmony. All people have everything they need to be happy, no one goes without life's basics and the most important function of law enforcement is directing traffic and getting cats out of trees. Birds are singing, the sun is shining and the lawn mows itself.

Now slap yourself in the face and come back to the real world.

We all know that idyllic setting will never exist; the only point in time in the history of  mankind it did exist was in the Garden of Eden, before the whole 'forbidden fruit' incident.

Oops! I probably just upset a whole class of folks for mentioning something from the Bible. Get over yourselves, Darwinists and atheists, because I don't care.

Now imagine a country in which the vast majority of citizens actually have respect for the men and women in law enforcement and the laws that govern this land we call America.

That world once existed, too, just as the Garden of Eden did.

Every day, watching the news on television or reading the headlines, we see the regression of society, the erosion of respect between people regardless of class or social standing. Right is becoming wrong, black is becoming white (that is not a racial statement, readers, so don't get your underwear in a bunch) and bottom is becoming top.

What has happened to us?

There's not enough space on this forum to attempt to compile a list of driving factors responsible for the growing chaos spreading across our nation, the causative forces that are dividing...and then subdividing...us.

So let's just look at one that is in the news seemingly every day: the NFL player protests.

It all started when a player, whose name I won't devote space to, decided to kneel during the playing of our National Anthem before a game to protest police brutality toward minorities. Then said player wore socks at football practice that depicted police officers as pigs.

Many of you are too young to remember the 60s and early seventies when folks who would, today, be considered 'social justice warriors', chanted slogans like "Off (kill) the pigs! Off the pigs!"

I remember those times well. It angered me as a young teen and it still does today, only now it is much more pronounced, thanks to the advent of the internet and social media. Everybody has a video camera on their phone and instant access to a world-wide viewing audience, so let's just keep beating the horse until long after it dies.

Oops! I just made a statement that might anger PETA. Too bad; that phrase has been around since long before the folks of People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals were ever thought about. Mind you, I'm opposed to mistreatment of animals to any extent...except for mice, rats, snakes and mosquitos.

The player 'protests' have since snowballed, gaining momentum like an avalanche, and spread across the entire league, causing a disconnect between a large portion of the fan base of the National Football League and its players.

"But what about their right to free speech?", you ask?

Hey, have at it, NFL players, only don't do it on company time...or mine. You can protest all you want in the offseason or during time away from the practice field. Owners have a right to govern how you act before, during and after games while representing their teams, teams they spent hundreds of millions of dollars to acquire.

Imagine, let's say, that I insisted on wearing a 'Save the Whales' button on my uniform during my police career. Think I would have lasted 31 years? Negative. I wouldn't even have made it off  the first day of the probationary period. Would the Chief have been within his rights to fire me for disobeying uniform regulations? Absolutely and without doubt. Could I have worn that same button off-duty on my civilian clothing? Again, absolutely and without doubt I could have.

There are rules that must be followed, set by those that run NFL teams and police departments. The league has specific rules regarding uniforms, just as law enforcement agencies do. They also have rules of conduct...the same as law enforcement agencies. Players and police officers must obey them or face punishment. Period.

Kneeling during the anthem? That's just a whole lot of disrespect to our nation, flag and those who defend them, which includes military and police.

Now let's look at the specific issue of 'police brutality'. Anyone who says it doesn't exist, that all police officers are upstanding, by-the-book coppers, lacks intelligence. There's bad apples everywhere, those that slip through the cracks in the hiring process.

The fact is, though, that throughout the course of any given year, law enforcement officers across the nation engage in multiple millions of public contacts; considering that, there's bound to be incidents in which bad or wrong decisions are made and actual criminal acts on the part of police are committed. No one wearing a badge wants that, believe me, but it happens.

No one wants misconduct on behalf of, say, clergymen, physicians or educators, either, yet compared to police officers, those groups have a much higher rate of misconduct than law enforcement. Do the research.

So why, then, do NFL players choose to say that police brutality is a bigger issue, larger than, say, black-on-black crime or domestic violence, for instance? Why do they not instead protest all the gun violence and killings in Chicago, a city with the strictest gun-control laws on the books?

Because, you see....us coppers are easier targets.

It's the culture of a segment of our society....and I don't like it at all.

Short-Sighted Self Pity

You have problems and issues. I have problems and issues; no one is immune from them, but don't allow yourself to magnify whatever ails you into being an uncontrollable, insurmountable challenge.

Right now, somewhere in this country, a person is eating out of a dumpster.

Someone is drawing their last breath.

Someone, seeing no other path, is taking their own life.

Someone is laying in bed, unable to arise on their own and asking God for the millionth time, "WHY?"

Someone is halfway across the globe, desperately trying to get home with no means to do so.

Someone is totally alone and doesn't want to be.

Someone is grieving the loss of a spouse, child, sibling or parent.

Someone is sleeping in their own filth inside a makeshift shelter under a bridge.

Someone is trying to drown their sorrows in alcohol.

Someone is sitting in a hospital room, watching their child struggle to live through the night.

Someone is being beaten and robbed.

Someone's child is being abused.

Someone is injecting what will be their last dose of heroin.

Someone is discovering they have a terminal illness.

Someone is losing their job.

Someone is in excruciating, unbearable pain, unable to afford medication.

Someone won't see another sunrise.

This list is endless; the point of it? Stop wallowing in self-pity because, somewhere, someone is much worse off than you.

Bad News Sells...Especially If It Involves Police

Imagine, if you will, that you're  driving home after a long day finishing concrete in ninety-degree heat. Traffic is a little heavy on the interstate, you're tired, hot and sweaty, maybe not paying as much attention to your driving as you should. The cool air blasting from the A/C vent feels luxurious as you uncap a bottle of water and take a good, long drink, distracting you just enough that you don't see the car in front of you stop abruptly.

Your full-size pickup truck slams into the back of the car ahead, badly injuring a nine-year-old child in the back seat.

That's a terrible scenario, on any scale, one that would forever changes many lives. But let the story play out a little further...

You're not drunk, under the influence of drugs or driving recklessly. Law enforcement shows up and completes the crash investigation, a driver in a car next to you witnessed the accident and you taking a drink of water. "He wasn't speeding", that witness said in her statement. "He just didn't see the car in front of him stop quickly enough." You're cited for ACDA (assured clear distance ahead) and released to your wife, who drives you home.

Headlines the next day: 'CONCRETE FINISHER INJURES NINE YEAR OLD'. Different versions of the story run for several days.

News at the top of the hour on the radio: "A concrete finisher yesterday caused a severe accident on the interstate which badly injured a child..."

Social media explodes with the news, embellished repeatedly as its passed along; the 'letters to the editor' section of the local paper prints no less than seven entries, all condemning you as the current version of  Adolph Hitler.

All that's ridiculous, right?

Let's change the occupation from 'concrete finisher' to 'police officer'.

Suddenly it all makes sense, doesn't it? A cop almost killed that child. He of all people should know to pay more attention to his driving! He probably WAS speeding because he knew he wouldn't get cited if he was stopped...you know how those cops all stick together and cover up for each other! HE SHOULD BE FIRED AND LOCKED UP! People distance themselves from the police officer. Neighbors stop being so friendly. Worse, his kids are taunted at school because of what their father did.

As absurd as all that sounds, that happens daily across America.

It's something they don't tell you about in the police academy, this 'living under the public microscope', at least not when I went through it. I sure hope these young people who think they want to be cops are aware of it now, especially in a world where everyone literally has a video camera with them at all times, in the form of their cell phones.

I'll be the first to confirm that there are those officers who aren't law-abiding and have no business wearing a badge; convictions of three local cops in recent years, each resulting in prison sentences, are proof of that and they deserved all the negative attention they brought upon themselves.

I can't stand a dirty cop.

What happens, though, is that their brothers and sisters in blue suffer, too. They had nothing at all to do with the crimes their co-worker committed, but because of the actions of those few mopes the entire police department is dirty in the public's eyes. Keyboard warriors, living in Mom and Dad's basement, pound out vile slime and spew it across the internet, condemning everyone who wears a badge.

Police officers are human beings. They have emotions, too, and aren't immune from the same problems everyone else might have. They make mistakes and bad decisions.

I made mistakes. I was dragged through the mud of  a bad decision in the media, too...and I deserved it. I owned up, took departmental discipline and didn't complain because I had it coming. The worst part of the entire ordeal was the disparagement I brought on the department and my family.

There'd have been no mention of it if I'd have been a concrete finisher, though.

Coppers today need to realize how closely they're watched, not only by the media but by the people they serve and protect. As a police friend of mine in Lexington once put it, they need to conduct themselves as if a judge and jury were in the cruiser with them.

Because, relatively speaking, they are.

Before Civil Courts And Insurance Companies

Stacy was off half the day yesterday, so she started cleaning the closet out in the back bedroom. I was working on a story on my laptop in the living room when she comes in, holds out a dark blue pair of pants and asks if I want to keep them.

It was a pair of my old uniform pants from Mansfield PD.

I took them from her, looking them over as memories came flooding back. I'd had a blackjack pocket sewn into the right leg, just back of the outside seam and low enough that it was easy to get to. The outside material was worn and a little faded from where the leather-encased, lead-filled business end of the attention-getter used to ride, a tool I used for door-knocking more than anything.

Back in the day, just about all the folks I worked with carried some variation of the blackjack, sap, convoy or whatever else those personal defense weapons went by; their use most times meant a trip to the ER for their target before going to book-in.

With the advent of kinder, gentler policing and newer, 'better' tools such as the PR 24 side-handle baton, OC spray and tasers, the throwback from my early days on the job fell by the wayside.

"Too much liability", the decision-makers had said; law enforcement techniques were becoming fodder for lawsuit-happy defense attorneys across the nation, resulting in sweeping policy changes that affected virtually every police agency, large and small.

Civil suits and municipal insurance providers now dictate how a policeman does his/her job.

...and I hate that. I thank God that I worked when police officers could actually do their jobs.

Anniversary Of A Second Chance At Life

Three years ago today, right at this very moment, I was in the fight of my life.

I had small cell renal carcinoma, a tumor the size of a quarter was growing in my left kidney; had it not been discovered, quite by accident, I wouldn't be here today. This type of cancer doesn't manifest itself until it's spread to the liver and lungs and, by then, it's usually too late.

I'd had a routine chest x-ray, which just happened to catch the upper portion of my kidneys and the doctors noticed a mass in my left kidney. Believing it to be a cyst, which is common, my personal physician suggested I have an MRI...just to be sure it wasn't something more serious.

It was.

She'd told me, on our next appointment, that it would have killed me eventually and that I was lucky. She also said I'd lose the kidney, but that hundreds of thousands of folks are living normal, everyday lives with only one kidney. Doc Becker asked if I'd like to be referred to a local kidney specialist or go elsewhere.

We went to Columbus. For reasons I won't go into, I'll never have another serious surgical procedure performed in this area.

We chose Central Ohio Urology, a group of thirty physicians in Columbus who specialize in all things related to the renal system. Dr. Brad Pewitt was who we saw on that initial consultation, a 50-ish, balding man who spoke in monotone but made it clear he knew what he was doing.

After reviewing the x-ray and MRI film and reports, Dr. Pewitt had some good news...sort of. "You won't be losing the entire kidney. The tumor is confined in the upper portion and, provided there's no evidence of it having spread, we'll be able to remove that portion of your kidney during a robotic procedure which will leave you with three small incisions in your abdomen. You'll heal much quicker because we won't have to make a large incision and cut through abdominal muscle."

I had to wait 45 days for surgery day, a time frame during which I didn't sleep much, knowing there was a killer growing inside me.

Stacy and I stayed at a hotel near the hospital the night before surgery; I had to be at Mount Carmel East in Columbus at 0600. That night I slept a little better, knowing the issue would be resolved the next morning.

Surgery prep was almost robotic itself; the nurses and staff were very efficient in getting me ready to go under the scalpel. They shaved my lower chest and stomach, dousing it thoroughly with the red, sticky antiseptic that every hospital in the world seems to use. An IV was started and they gave me some sort of sedation to keep me calm, the nurse administering it laughing as I joked with she and my wife. The sedative, I thought, made everything I said hilariously funny.

The time came to go into surgery; Stacy kissed me and said she'd see me in a little while as she held my hand. I didn't want to let go.

Three-and-a-half hours later, hearing first and then seeing through hazy eyes, I drifted in/out and then back into consciousness. My left side just below the ribcage throbbed, burning a little, too. A nurse worked beside my bed, checking vitals on a large monitor and inspecting the IV insertion site. She told me I was in a recovery room but would be going to intensive care shortly. I was still loopy enough that those words didn't alarm me.

Drifting in and out, seeing fluorescent ceiling lights pass by and feeling the sensation of moving - stopping - moving, I cannot say I knew exactly when I was wheeled into the ward. Time didn't exist, just the floating feeling, the snatches of sentences heard, but not quite understood, from nursing staff. That aching, burning pain getting just a little more intense by the minute, I finally regained some semblance of my senses when I heard my wife's voice, her face appearing above mine like the angel she is.

She was crying.

"I thought I was going to lose you", she said, voice cracking. That is a memory I will take to my grave, Stacy extremely distraught at my brush with death. I don't ever want to be the reason my wife cries.

She kissed my forehead and explained that something had gone wrong during the procedure, wrong enough that a nurse had sought her out to tell her I was bleeding profusely internally but that doctors were working to get it stopped.

I later discovered that, during the robotic procedure, an artery had been cut; Dr. Pewitt and assisting surgeons then had to make a ten-inch incision just below the ribcage to get to the artery. They gave me six pints of blood during that incident, which is why they'd placed me in intensive care; they wanted to make sure I didn't start bleeding again. Apparently I'd almost bled to death in surgery.

Three days later I was moved to a step-down ward; five days after that I was released from the hospital. Three check ups later, there's no sign of cancer anywhere. I didn't even have to undergo chemotherapy or radiation treatments because, by the grace of almighty God, the tumor had been fully-encapsulated inside the kidney.

Though I may be sixty-one, I consider this day the third anniversary of my second-chance life, a chance that thousands every day don't get. I look back on those three years that have passed, noting all the events and happy times I would have missed, and am ever thankful for this life I have, this gift God has given me. To Him goes the eternal glory.

It can end in the blink of an eye, at any moment. I will never take my life for granted. Ever.

Neither should you.

Dad

Father's Day. Call your Dad, go see him and give him a big hug as you tell him you love him. One day you won't be able to do any of it.

I lost my Dad over four years ago. I wish I could still do those things.

Dad was a blue-collar man's man. I remember him, at times, working two jobs to provide for our family. Most of his working life was spent at Ontario's General Motors plant, at a time before they paid big hourly wages. I worked eighteen months at Stone Container Corporation making cardboard boxes and sheets, hating every minute being inside a factory. It gave me a much greater respect for what Dad did for us, spending over thirty years inside a factory; I imagine he hated it, too, but he was doing what he had to do in order to raise a family.

So many memories come flooding back, not only on Father's Day but every day.When I was in kindergarten we lived on Lexington Avenue, two doors south of what was then Cesar's Shell station; it's now a Valero. I ripped my hand open trying to climb up onto the garage roof back then, running into the house screaming. Mom and Dad wrapped my hand in a towel, loaded me into the station wagon and we took a wild, horn-blaring ride to Mansfield General Hospital. Being too young to understand it was a serious but non-life threatening, I clearly remember pleading, "Daddy, don't let me die! Don't let me die!"

Hearing those words had to have ripped his heart out. Being a father, I understand the impact those words must have had.

I remember Dad pitching to my sister Joyce and I in the back yard with a wiffle ball. One of us would be Mickey Mantle and the other Roger Maris. Dad was a Yankee fan, only because the Indians were terrible. He took me to see the Indians in old Cleveland Municipal Stadium several times while I was growing up and he is the reason I love baseball so much. I'll forever hear him saying "those dang Indians!" when they'd lose yet again.

I remember Dad driving us cross-country to see the Grand Canyon and sleeping along the road, all five of us, in the station wagon. I also remember staying in the Vagabond Motel outside of Albuquerque, New Mexico and swimming in the pool there...with Dad's help. That same trip, we were eating in a restaurant, me sitting next to a big window in a booth. I spotted a dead fly on the window sill and pointed it out to Dad; his reply was "Sshhh, son...everybody else will want one, too."

That was Dad's sense of humor.

I remember Dad taking me to see Dr. Shamess my freshman year of high school; Doc fixed my shoulder after the third dislocation and it had been time to get the stitches removed. Apparently Doc had waited a bit too long to take them out, because skin had grown over several of them. I laid on the exam table as the surgeon worked to remove them, blood trickling down the shoulder and onto the paper covering the table.

Dad almost passed out.

My Dad was a strict disciplinarian and I'm glad he was; it kept me out of trouble in my teen years. He also pastored a church in Galion for several years, which meant church Sunday morning, Sunday night and Wednesday night, every week without fail...unless I was sick.

He was also a man who could fix just about anything. One winter, the blower motor in the furnace went out in the middle of the night; he fixed it using the motor out of Mom's old washer, which he'd had the foresight to remove before hauling it off to the junk yard.

There's several years' worth of anecdotal stories I could write about my Dad, a man I loved and admired deeply and who instilled in me my conservative values and love of history, but there's not enough time to tell them all.

I miss my Dad.

                                            My Dad, Clarence Clark, in the early 1960s

Good Vs Evil

From the dawn of time, when Cain killed his brother, Abel with a rock, evil has existed in the world. A single rock killed one boy, whose brother became mankind's very first murderer.

Millions and millions have followed in Cain's footsteps throughout the millennia, right up to present day on this Earth; there's no sign evil will ever slow down.

So how do we combat evil, which takes on a plethora of forms? How can we stem the tsunami waves of despicable acts committed by mankind on mankind, flooding across our nation and other continents?

By doing good. Good takes on a variety of identities, too. It may be in the form of mowing your elderly neighbor's lawn, by volunteering at a homeless shelter or cleaning up your neighborhood after a violent storm rolls through the area..

You've heard the term 'mob mentality'? Good will towards your fellow man can be infectious, too. I think the phrase is 'pay it forward'; in other words, when someone does something good for you, you in turn do something positive for someone else. Doing that, whether you're receiving or giving, evokes good feelings, makes you feel positive. You can make a difference. Even something so simple as a kind or reassuring word to a total stranger in obvious need is a step in the right direction.

Evil, however, will always be with us; it's why we have police officers, fire fighters, trauma center nurses and doctors and social workers. Those are the first that come to mind but there are many other groups whose sole aim is to give assistance in times of crisis.

We each have our own inner battle with evil, things we struggle with daily that those around us can't see or even comprehend. It brings to mind an old Native American proverb that goes like this:

An old Cherokee is teaching his grandson about life. “A fight is going on inside me,” he said to the boy.

“It is a terrible fight and it is between two wolves. One is evil – he is anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego.” 

He continued, “The other is good – he is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith. The same fight is going on inside you – and inside every other person, too.”

The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather, “Which wolf will win?”

The old Cherokee simply replied, “The one you feed.”

Memorial Day's True Meaning

For much of America, Memorial Day means an extra day off from their work week. It means the end of the school year and the official start of summer. It means cook-outs, picnics and trips to the beach and, for some, visits to the grave sites of lost loved ones, where they’ll lay wreaths or plant flowers in their memory.

The reality of this day, which became an official national holiday in 1971, is that we honor those who have lost their lives in military service to our country. Started shortly after the conclusion of the Civil War, it was formerly known as ‘Decoration Day’, a time when our nation’s patriot heroes were remembered by placing wreaths, flags and flowers at their resting places. It is to be a solemn, somber occasion during which this nation reflects on the sacrifices made by those who have kept us free. We are to honor America’s military combatants who paid the ultimate price, in all wars and conflicts, by shedding their blood so that we, today, can live free of the shackles of those who would enslave us and trample our Constitution.

We honor those who fell freeing us from British colonialism in places such as Bunker Hill, Boston and Valley Forge; from the North versus South Civil War, which was anything but civil, in places like Charleston, Fredericksburg, Manassas, Gettysburg and Antietam.

We honor those who sacrificed their lives during the Great War, often referred to as the ‘War to End All Wars’, at Belleau Wood, Chateau-Thierry and Cantigny; the Second World War in the hell that was Pearl Harbor, Guadalcanal, Iwo Jima, Normandy and Bastogne.

We honor the brave men who fought in Korea, killed during combat action at Inchon, the Imjin River, the frozen Chosin Reservoir and Pork Chop Hill; those who died in the steamy jungles of Viet Nam in places such as Pleiku, Ia Drang, the A Shau Valley and Khe Sanh.

We honor those who have fought and died in America’s ongoing War on Terror in the heat and grit at Anbar Province, Fallujah, Mosul and Basra in Iraq, and Tora Bora, Kamdesh, Wanat and the Helmand and Kandahar Provinces in Afghanistan.

We honor men and women who gave their lives amidst the artillery barrages, the bayonet charges, withering automatic weapons fire, aircraft crashes; in the dark, flaming, smoke-filled compartments of torpedoed ships, inside the oven-like personnel carriers hit by rocket-propelled grenades or buried improvised explosive devices, in the trenches, fox holes and bunkers in every war the United States has fought, hot steel raining down from enemy bombers or shards of shrapnel from air burst artillery rounds.

We honor those who died protecting this nation; whether the conflict was deemed  just or unjust by the American public matters not. These patriot heroes answered the call to arms, protected us from all enemies foreign or domestic, in our own nation and on foreign shores. They left behind their wives, husbands, brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers, sons and daughters, loved ones who will forever remember the souls laid bare upon the altar of freedom.

Much as the State of Israel pauses as one on Holocaust Remembrance Day to recall the millions of Jews whose lives were stilled by the Nazis during World War Two, we also MUST pause to honor those who gave their lives in defense of our United States of America.

God rest the souls of all our patriot heroes this, and every, Memorial Day.