A $6,000 Raise? I'll Take It, But Oklahoma's Teachers Won't

I love and have much respect for all my friends who are educators. You have a tough job. You're probably still paying on the student loans that got you to where you are today. You put in extra time and spend your own money in order to educate the students you have. Unquestionably you are dedicated. What I am about to say is NOT directed at you; rather it is to the teacher's union in Oklahoma.

I put in over three decades wearing a badge. I worked year-round, in all weather conditions, holiday or not. I saw murder, suicide and fatal accident scenes you cannot imagine, sometimes having to inform members of the decedent's family of what had happened to their loved ones.

I lost friends who died in the line of duty; I also lost 'friends' because of my profession.

I suffered broken bones, torn ligaments and spinal disc degeneration because of the job. I've had five knee surgeries, including a replacement and, eight years later, a revision of it. I had to have my right ankle reconstructed. A fleeing felon hit my cruiser head-on; a drunk driver ran a red light and smashed into the side of my cruiser.

 I've been spit on, assaulted and called vile names...just because I was a policeman. I've had my life threatened and, worse, had the lives of family members threatened. I had a convict tell me he would find out where I lived and rape my wife.

I, too, worked part-time jobs...and all the overtime and special details I could handle. Why? So I could give my family things they deserved since, a lot of times, I couldn't be at home for birthdays and holidays.

A raise of $6,100 a year sounds pretty good, if you ask me, since I retired on disability and have a limited income; there's hundreds of thousands of others who are worse off than I am who would take a raise like that in a heartbeat. You see, we can't go on strike, but you can....

...at the expense of our young people.

A Grandma's Wrath

Any copper will tell you that, on the job, you take your humor where you can find it, such as the juvenile who wants to go to lock-up.

It's probably been nearly thirty years ago when this happened; it still makes me chuckle to this day.

I was working midnight shift on a summer evening; it was a warm, midweek night and there wasn't much happening, save for a loud music call, maybe, or some other type of minor disturbance. When it gets in the shallow end of the pool as far as calls for service you start looking for something to do, to make the shift pass a little more quickly.

Parked next to an abandoned building on the north end of town, in the shadows where it would be hard to spot my darkened cruiser, I sat with windows down and engine off, listening to the whisper of distant tires-on-pavement as well as the common night-sounds, Cleveland's WMMS FM keeping me company in the background. Across the road was another abandoned structure, its cracked parking lot sprouting low, sparse vegetation every few feet.

'Something to do' then decided to make his appearance. Walking quickly right-to-left a mere fifteen feet in front of my cruiser, a teen who was obviously too young to be out on the streets at 0130 was oblivious to my presence. I made him very aware.

"Hey, young man". To my surprise he didn't bolt.

I got out of the cruiser and walked toward him. "What are you doing out at this hour?"

Nervously, after the thought of fleeing made its way through his brain: "I was playing video games at my boy's house. I'm going home right now."

"Well, c'mon over here and have a seat in my cruiser. I'll make sure you get home." I didn't mention we'd be stopping at the station first to make a phone call.

Needless to say, the youth wasn't very happy when we pulled into the police compound lot.

"Listen, we're just gonna call your Mom to come and get you." Sometimes not issuing a summons for a curfew violation is the better solution; parents do not like to be awakened by a phone call from the police in the middle of the night, telling them they need to come pick up their youngster. Their being inconvenienced at that hour usually translated into some significant punishment.

"But you can't call my Mom."

"Why not?"

A hesitation. "Because she's in prison."

I started to feel for the 15-year-old as we walked into an empty office, especially after he told me his Dad lived in another state. "Well, who's taking care of you, then?"

"Grandma."

He told me her name but refused to give me her phone number. "Just take me to the Attention Center", referring to the county's juvenile holding facility.

I looked him in the eye. He was serious about being locked up. "Why would you want to go there? Why not just go home?"

"Man, you don't know my Grandma."

I called Records and had Grandma's phone number in short order; as I started to punch the numbers into the phone the teen became alarmed.

"NO!! PLEASE, please don't call her! Just take me to jail! PLEASE!"

Obviously his grandmother ran a strict household. The kid actually had tears in his eyes; this tall, lanky teen would rather be locked in a sparsely-furnished room than face the woman who was raising him in his mother's absence.

"Look, I can't take you to the Attention Center for a curfew violation. They won't take you for only that."

I spoke to Grandma when she answered her telephone, explaining the situation concerning her wayward grandson, who'd left the house sometime after she went to bed.

"Thank you, Mister Officer. I'll be right there."

It wasn't long before I was notified there was someone in the lobby to see me. It was the teen's Grandma. She was short, her gray-streaked hair contrasting against the chocolate skin of her face, eyes framed with big, round eyeglasses. A large purse was slung on her arm.

 Looking sternly at her grandchild, who was actually trying to resist being guided into the lobby from the police offices, the woman apologized for any trouble the youth had caused me. "I'm sorry you had to call me, officer. I guarantee he won't cause you any more trouble."

After thanking her for coming to get him, I told Grandma the teen had been no trouble and had, in fact, been very polite. "He's all yours, ma'am."

As I turned and walked back into the department, what I heard next was music to my ears.

"NO GRANDMA, NO!! I'M SORRY!! GRANDMA! OOWWWW!!"

Justice was served. There's nothing like a Grandma's wrath.

Toccoa

Northwest South Carolina, where my mother lives, is a throwback to simpler times. Green town squares, edged by storefronts well more than a century old, are dotted by statues and plaques honoring heroes from the past in the flapping shadows of American flags, which seem to be everywhere. Driving through gently rolling countryside, expansive, grand homes whose properties are bordered with split-rail fences dot the landscape, intermingled with pastures populated by horses and cattle. History almost oozes from the very ground itself.

I took a drive with Mom, generally just following our noses, passing through towns like Powdersville, Cateechee, Clemson, Keowee and Seneca. Before long we crossed into northeast Georgia, about as country as you can get. Pine forests at times lined both sides of the two-lane highway, occasionally broken by lakes and streams....along with souvenir shops and billboards encouraging us to visit tourist destinations.

One particular billboard caught my eye and my heart; it became our landing spot.

Toccoa, Georgia.

To those not familiar with history, particularly World War II history, Toccoa might not mean anything.

It means much to me, along with the mountain which stands nearby: Currahee.

Toccoa, Georgia was the site where, in early 1942, the 506th Parachute Infantry Regiment of the 101st Airborne trained its young soldiers in becoming paratroopers. The 506th, especially 'Easy' (E) Company, was featured in the 2001 HBO series 'Band of Brothers', following the company from its training at Camp Toccoa through the D-Day parachute jump into Nazi-occupied France, the siege at Bastogne and the ending of the war as they occupied Hitler's mountain-top retreat at the 'Eagle's Nest' high in the Bavarian Alps.

My wife claims I watch the series every time it appears on television; she isn't wrong.

Several segments of the opening episode feature the men of Easy company running up and down  Currahee Mountain, a six-mile round trip. Today, the town features an annual event called the Currahee Run, in which  runners navigate some of the same route that the men of Easy ran in 1942.

I had to find the site where Camp Toccoa once stood.

First, though, Mom and I toured the Currahee Museum, which featured a history of the area along with its large display of parachute infantry training which occurred at the military training site. Walking among the glass-encased rifles, parachute gear, old writing desks, mess hall equipment and just about everything a young soldier ever used I was enveloped in the nostalgia of those times, imagining what life must have been like for those patriot heroes now gone: Colonel Robert Sink, Major Dick Winters, Carwood Lipton, Joe Toye, Bill Guarnere, Denver 'Bull' Randleman, Captain Lewis Nixon, George Luz, Don Malarkey...the list is endless.

One entire room of the museum contained the names, profiles and awarded citations of Easy Company. Suffice it to say that the display was awe-inspiring, especially considering what those men endured during the war as seen through the eyes of HBO's cameras.

Also included was an original, complete stable which was first used to house paratroopers of the 506th when they arrived at Aldbourne, England; several stalls of the stable were outfitted as if the men had just left them. They had been destined for demolition, however the museum had been contacted and expressed interest in displaying one of them. Workmen in England dismantled a stable, shipped it to Toccoa and then reassembled it inside the museum.

As for Currahee, the staff at the museum gave us pre-printed directions to get to the mountain and the area where the now-gone Camp Toccoa once stood; unfortunately, Mom and I soon discovered that the access road was closed, barricaded by concrete stanchions, for unknown reasons...

...but there's always the next trip south. Toccoa is a mere 56 miles from Mom's place.

                                             Easy Company, 506th PIR in Toccoa

An original leather jacket worn by members of the 101st Airborne after the war

The original stable from England stands to the left

Carwood Lipton's display

Offline

I'll be unplugged from the world-wide web for the next week, conducting an experiment to determine if man really can live without the internet.

In actuality, I'll be visiting family out-of-state.

Look for a new post on Saturday, March 17.

Stay safe, everyone.

The Gun Control Debate

As a former police officer I take special note of news items, commentaries and the liberal/conservative oratories concerning gun violence. Most coppers will tell you they've seen the wrong end of a gun a time or two and have also been witness to the death that sometimes comes with firearms in the hands of the wrong people..

Of particular interest is the narrative whose central theme is, 'stricter gun control or outright banning of guns will reduce gun violence'.

Not true. Not even close. You only need look as far as Chicago or New York City for examples of strict control not working. Theirs are among the most stringent in the United States, yet gun-related deaths continue to climb in those cities. No matter how much control you exert over firearms, the criminal element will always have them. Always. After all, they're criminals, right? They are defined by NOT following the laws of the land like most of the populace.

The question becomes, 'how do you keep them out of the wrong hands?' Well, not through gun control, that's for sure. Its just not possible.

Take, for example, drug trafficking. Heroin and cocaine are both illegal, yet their availability on America's streets flourishes. The narc cops take down major players and three more take their places. Dope finds its way into the prisons and jails, and they are the most strictly-controlled portion of our citizenry.

If some deranged person wants to kill, for whatever reason, they'll find a way to do it, firearm or no firearm. Timothy McVeigh? He used a very large homemade bomb and a rental truck and killed 169 people, injuring over six-hundred-eighty more, 22 years ago in Oklahoma City. Every few weeks we hear of a nut case using a vehicle to intentionally run down pedestrians somewhere in the world. Back in 1982 there was a nationwide scare after some crazy started putting potassium cyanide in Tylenol capsules, killing eight people and forever changing the way over-the-counter drugs are packaged and sold in this country.

Deeper background checks prior to gun sales? I don't have an issue with it...unless, somewhere down the line, Congress or whoever the President is gets into the equation of deciding the definition of 'mental fitness'. There are those obvious cases, easy to differentiate, as to whether or not someone should be permitted to own a gun. But what about the guy who never goes outside and always keeps his blinds closed? Is HE unfit just because he prefers to live as a hermit, because his neighbors consider him 'strange'? Or how about the twenty-four-year-old woman who posted on social media ten years earlier that she wanted to 'kill' someone because they did something she didn't like? The issue with social media that folks don't take into consideration is that, once you hit that 'send' button, it's out there forever, no matter if you think you've deleted or erased it. SOMEwhere it's recorded or on file.

After thirty-one years wearing a badge, I can attest to the fact that there are normal, everyday people who walk among us that have no business owning a firearm, individuals who, from the outside, are playing at 33 1/3 along with the rest of us but inside their heads the turn table is doing 78 RPMs.

I can envision all the Millenials pausing to Google that last bit of information.

So what IS the answer? I don't know, but think about this: the year I graduated, 1975, there were TWO school shootings I could find record of; one in New Jersey that killed one man and the other in Brampton, as in Ontario, Canada.

And that, friends, was at a time that it was not uncommon to see rifles or shotguns in gun racks inside pickup trucks in high school parking lots across America, making firearms much more obtainable.

Ask yourself this question, then: what has changed, from then to now?

Dealing With Roadblocks And Setbacks

Everyone has a plan, what they see as a pathway to success. Some are meticulously laid out and may extend well into the future, having many moving parts that must be synchronized along the way in order to reach that magical kingdom called 'success'.

Some folks, though, choose the less difficult way to reach their version of success, the path of least resistance, by flying by the seat of their pants, winging it through life on their way to the prize., whatever form that may have.

And then the problems start happening, interrupting the schedule you've set for yourself, blocking your chosen course. A death in the family, a major medical issue, marital trouble...there will be something that falls across your road, becoming an issue that must be solved or overcome.

When that time comes you'll have to make a decision based on a number of concerns and variables.
How you respond in that moment, at that time, will dictate how the rest of your journey goes.

How do you make those big decisions or handle a setback? It all goes back to how bad you want what you're seeking. Hard work and extra hours could be the answer, as well as the possibility of altering course and going a different direction for a bit.

You just have to get past those issues by any means necessary and move forward....as long as your actions are legal,

And if your decision has bumps and potholes, you know what to do to...deal with them. No 'woe is me' or 'I just can't win'. Nope, the problem is yours and it is solvable. You'll find a way.
 Dad used to say, 'no problem you're going through right now  hasn't been  had by someone else before you'. Sage advice from the man who raised me.

Those pot holes and roadblock? Later in life they're points of reference. You'll realize they served a purpose and added to the fabric of your character, making you a better person.

And isn't that what we all want? To be better people?

                                                                                                                                         

Then Versus Now

Being a cop isn't easy by any stretch of the imagination, no matter what size of police department you work for. As a matter of fact, the difficulty of the job increases exponentially with the size of the department.

As the population increases, so do problems.

To deal with these problems, some of which have mutated since I retired in 2013, requires a lot of training. I mean a lot.

Back when I got started, 1977 at Ontario PD on the auxiliary, if you took a 40 hour 'short course' you could work on the street...provided you started a standardized law enforcement academy within a year. Forty hours. If I recall correctly, a standard police academy back then consisted of 280 hours.

As an auxiliary copper, I worked as much as I could, knowing it was an investment in my future. I'd work Fridays and Saturdays nearly every weekend, riding with a full-time guy (there were no females at OPD back then) and soaking up as much as I could.

Nowadays, I don't think two-hundred-eighty hours is even one-fifth of what the State of Ohio requires. A majority of departments, and almost all the larger ones, require at least an Associate's Degree to even qualify to take a Civil Service exam.

That wasn't even a consideration in 1977. Education wasn't as important as real life experience, such as military service. A military vet, in my opinion, is preferable to someone who spent four years in college to earn a degree in French Antiquities. I'm not saying education is a bad thing in law enforcement; I'm just of the opinion that, as long as some part of that college degree is remotely connected with enforcing the law, all the better. Most of the policemen I worked with were military vets...and some pretty good coppers, too.

Starting out, back in the day, you rode with a veteran officer until they thought you could handle yourself out on the street. Every rookie impatiently waited for the day they were 'cut loose' in a cruiser by themselves, that first shift alone being a mixture of excitement and terror. At Mansfield PD in 1984, my training officer was Sgt. Bob Poth, a big, lanky guy who seemingly knew everybody in the city and who was a cop's cop. Known as 'Pappy' or 'Slim' by those we came in contact with, I remember being amazed at how easily he handled every situation, how calm he could be no matter the circumstance. After a couple of weeks I was handed off to Ptl. Bob 'Bumper' Shook, a man who I was convinced had ice water in his veins. A few weeks with him and Bob pronounced me ready to go though, looking back now, I think he may have just gotten a little weary of hauling a new guy around with him every afternoon. That was it, though; no structured training program. You just had to prove that you could do the job adequately.

Today is a much, much different story. I can't comment on exactly how the field training program is structured now because I've been out of law enforcement for awhile but, suffice it to say, it's pretty extensive. Over the years civil litigation has largely grown police training standards, thanks to the lawsuit-driven environment today's law enforcement agencies are forced to operate within. I was a Field Training Officer for five years at Mansfield PD in the early '90s and, the way the program was administered back then, a rookie officer would work several training cycles, usually six weeks apiece with a different FTO at each level.

The mantra then, as I'm sure it is now, is document, document and then document some more. We operated by means of a Field Training Guide, in which was included just about every police task imaginable. At the end of every shift the FTO filled out an evaluation form and then went over it with the trainee. A separate eval, based on the daily observation reports, was then completed at each level of the training cycle. It was a huge but necessary paper trail and not every rookie would make it through the program.

As an FTO it was easy to get burned out. I'm just glad I started when I did and had some solid, patient coaches.

Otherwise, I might have spent my entire working life in the grocery business instead of wearing a badge.