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.