Learning To Talk A Second Time

Baby gibberish, cooing, squeals and blowing slobber bubbles evolves into trying to mimic words. Soon they start stringing together two or 3 words. That's followed by complete sentences and, before you know it, intelligent conversations through the pubesency period on into adulthood.

For most of society that's it; they've reached the pinnacle of speech, of communicating orally with another person, never understanding there's something beyond.

Cops know this...or at least most do. There's always a select few who believe they already know everything there is to know about communicating with those they are sworn to protect and serve. Sadly, there are those wearing a badge who believe their word is law,  a law not reinforced by actual law; the 'because I said so' complex which, they believe, demands immediate obedience.

The most useful skill a copper can develop is that of communication, the conveyance of ideas and meaning, followed closely by the ability to listen and comprehend.

Knowledge of the law, physical fitness for the job and proficiency with a sidearm are important, too, but they're all superseded by verbal acumen when dealing with the public.

The realization of this, for me, occurred when I was still on coach/pupil (it's called 'field training' now) and paired up with probably the best police officer I ever saw with this skill, Sgt. Bob Poth. 'Pappy' or 'Slim', as he was also known, could talk to anyone, from bank president to skid-row wino. It was this skill that would produce scores of folks who trusted him, even those who spent their lives on the wrong side of the law.

I once watched Slim and Sgt Jack Butler confront a man who was a hardened criminal, who had at one time bitten off part of a police officer's ear; this thug was at the top of a staircase, armed with a butcher knife, drunk and enraged, as they stood at the bottom of the steps, pistols (we still had revolvers back then) pointed at him as the thug threatened to kill them.

Slim talked the man into putting the knife down and coming down the steps to be handcuffed. I was amazed. I was sure I would witness a line-of-duty shooting, only five weeks into the job.

That was an important lesson.

Years before that, while working at a smaller department, a seasoned officer allegedly told a drunk driver he'd arrested to follow through on the driver's threat to commit suicide once he got home due to the DWI arrest.

And the arrestee did just that.

Words matter. Their meaning also matters. I wish those select few coppers I mentioned earlier understood this because, eventually, they'll stain the profession.

And maybe even indirectly cause a death.

Sully versus Bosco

Back in the early 2000s NBC had a fictional series called 'Third Watch'; it followed the lives of characters who were NYPD, FDNY and NYC paramedics, and it was a great show. My favorite was Officer John Sullivan, a grizzed, overweight, cynical veteran nearing retirement because he reminded me of...myself.

'Sully' would often clash with a young go-getter who loved running hot at a thousand miles per hour with his hair on fire, who believed the answer to every issue or problem was either an arrest or citation. Bosco was a policeman who reminded me of the youngsters getting into the job as I neared retirement.

I was Bosco way back in 1979. Even two years before that, when I was sworn in as an auxiliary patrolman at Ontario PD.

Every Friday and Saturday night as an auxiliary, without fail, I was at the old police department on Park Avenue West, which is now the city's senior citizen center. Back then, when Ontario was just a village, the administrative offices were in the front half of the building and the police department was in the back. General Motors, the Richland Mall, Service Merchandise, Zayre's, Tractor Supply and a handful of restaurants were the biggest reasons anyone stopped and spent time in the village.

Chief Bob Krauss, Captain Denny Reid, Lieutenant  Cal Miller, Tim McClaran, Keith Miller, Rex Knee, Ted Brinley and Dick Hamrick are all gone from us now, as is Paul Jones, who was also on the auxiliary. I worked with Dave Pugh, Ron Dille, Mike Burchett, Ron Miller, Lou Bemiller, Allen Au and Rod Smith in those days, too. Including the chief, we had thirteen officers. If memory serves, the auxiliary corps at one time had eighteen members.

Looking back, I can imagine that some of those men would, at times, become a little perturbed as I rode with them, for a couple of reasons: I wanted to write traffic tickets, make car stops and arrest people; plus, as I learned later in my career, when you're used to operating on your own in a cruiser, a rider can be a pain in the butt. Sometimes it was easy to feel the disdain the 'regulars' had for us.

As I progressed in my years on the job a lot of my attitude toward it changed. The boldest change was the realization that an arrest or citation isn't always the best answer. "We're out here to solve problems", Sully had once said to Bosco in one episode; the younger officer, of course had the opposite view of law enforcement. At the end of that episode, the veteran was proven right.

In the latter years of my three-plus decades on the job I can recount many instances of younger coppers having that same opposite view, seeing me as an over-the-hill dinosaur who was coasting toward the end of the line. The advent of in-car computer terminals only made things worse, as some youngsters wanted solely to operate through them. Officer safety was out the window by doing that, as far I as I was concerned, because if you weren't continually staring at the MDT screen you'd never know when another officer had cleared a call or car stop. Mobile Data Terminals have made for lazy policemen.

And solving problems? Giving someone a break on a minor infraction or traffic ticket paid off countless times, as folks tended to remember what you'd once done for them. One young guy couldn't understand why people would call me or stop in to see me out of the blue with information; I told him it was because they knew they owed me because they'd been let off the hook in the past. I'd treated them as human beings, not criminals; you build a rapport with people, not make them enemies. You don't go out and see how many tickets you can write during the shift, you go out, interact with the public and show them that you're human, too....and lose the arrogant attitude. You are NOT automatically better than someone else just because you're wearing a badge.

I'm just glad that some of the veteran officers I once worked with as a young man took the time to show me how to be a police officer.

Law enforcement needs more of those kind now.

                                                               Sully and Bosco

The Innocence of Rookies

A story in the local newspaper featured the swearing-in of a young man on the Mansfield Police Department. In addition to comments from the Chief of Police and the Mayor, the fledgeling officer remarked that he'd wanted to be in law enforcement since he was "a kid".

Most little boys who are now my age felt that way, too...unless, of course, they were afflicted at a young age with that terrible disease known as HDS.

Hose-Dragger Syndrome.

"I think I look forward to all of it", he's quoted as saying. Well, we all did when we started the journey Officer Hout is about to begin. We all had that innocent, bright-eyed outlook that we were going to be helping people...which we did.

The trouble is, at least for the majority of rookie officers, no one talks of the toll the evil in this world will take on the psyche and spirit.

No one tells you about the senseless violence and death, about horrific cases of child or elder abuse, about suicides driven by lost loves or burdens too heavy to bear. No one tells you that you'll see bodies mangled in fatal accidents and then have to notify family members of a loved one's death, about the fear that courses through your veins as you race to a call involving shots fired with victims down and the whereabouts of the armed suspect being unknown...or being shot at yourself. No one tells you about the spousal abuse you'll see, about the woman who keeps going back to a bad man until, finally, he kills her. About the overdose deaths, which are much more prevalent now than when I stood behind a badge.

No one tells you about the physical toll, either, about the injuries you'll suffer or develop. The muscle pulls, torn ligaments, fractures, cuts, bruises, dislocations and contusions. No one mentions being exposed to extreme heat and cold, or unseen toxic substances, about needle sticks while searching a drug addict, about the vomit, blood, decomposing bodies and excrement you'll see and smell.

No one tells you how jaded and cynical you'll become before finishing your career, how, eventually, just about everyone you come in contact with on the street is a liar until they prove otherwise. You'll never understand why people lie to the police when the truth would save them.

No one tells you about the internal sorrow you'll carry for having to witness the extremes of the human condition, about certain cases or incidents haunting you even decades later, about knowing someone is responsible for a death, even though it couldn't be proven in a court of law.

No one tells you about the job becoming monotonous, about the loathing you'll develop for certain calls...or coworkers, who somehow slipped through the cracks of the hiring/training process and are wearing the same badge as you, though they'll certainly not ever put themselves in danger to protect others, including you.

No one tells you about the rage you'll feel when one of your own brothers or sisters is proven to be a dirty cop, or how the public will paint you with the same broad brush just because that crooked officer worked with you.

No one tells you about the habits you'll assume, about never sitting with your back to the door in a public building, about watching everyone, especially their hands, about endlessly looking at license plates as you travel; no one tells you your head will be on an almost constant swivel while you're out somewhere with your wife and family, or about the unrelenting, unexplainable-to-the-public need to have a handgun with you almost all the time.

No one tells you about the 'left behind' feeling you'll have the further you get into retirement, when nearly the entire department has turned into faces you don't know anymore.

Evan Hout does have one advantage, though; his father-in-law is MPD Sergeant Steve Blust, a man I worked years with and have huge respect for. I'm sure Steve will offer guidance when asked.

To Officer Hout I say, good luck; you'll need it, because you will be working in a far different world than I did.

When The Snows Came

They'd forecast this heavy snow a few days in advance. Evidence could initially be seen at the grocery stores, where the bread and milk shelves were quickly depleted. Gas stations began running out of fuel. Snow shovels and bags of de-icing salt started getting difficult to find. Pickup trucks with snow plows, some with those little $4.99 yellow flashing lights magnetically stuck to the roofs, became increasingly visible on the roadways, waiting for their dollar bills to start falling from the skies.

Then it started snowing, steadily.

My bride and I were at the house we'd just purchased when it began, discussing with a family friend the pros and cons of running water and sewer lines up to the 2nd floor, where we want to build a half bath. By the time Tom left, an hour later, it became obvious we'd be engaged in adventurous driving on the way home.

Right after trekking downtown to the BMV office. Stacy needed her yearly registration sticker.

Here's the thing about winter driving and, admit it, we all have this same mindset: nobody else drives as well in the snow as we do. Everyone else drives too fast, too slow, takes up two lanes because they have no idea where the lane lines are, don't have the faintest idea how to brake on slick streets or how to get up icy hills.

Everyone else needs to just stay home so I can get to where I'm going.

So here Stacy and I are, inbound on Woodville Road towards Cook Rd, snaking moderately through the 3 ninety-degree turns. An oncoming car, driven by a Generation X-er on her cell phone, decides the center of the road belongs to her white Jeep SUV.

Disaster averted, thanks to a drive entrance I was able to encroach upon.

People have been remarking negatively about the City of Mansfield's lack of road maintenance during winter weather, saying they never see city plow trucks working the streets. We passed two withing a 200-yard stretch, plows down and salt slingers scattering material.

We safely arrived at the downtown license bureau, where we were reminded yet again why we prefer going to Shelby's office: the employees in Whippet Country are much more pleasant to deal with.

My wife, now feeling much better for having purchased her new plate sticker (the old one expires tomorrow...she was convinced she would be stopped and thrown in jail for having an expired registration sticker this coming Tuesday), and I started for our current Melody Lane home.     

There is no way to get to Ram Field Ranch without encountering a hill. A big one.

That being the case, I took the bull by the corns and traveled across Grace Street, which my wife thought was crazy; Stacy thought that the big hill between Stewart Road and Sabo Drive would be impossible for our Chevy Equinox to climb, road conditions being what they were.

"There's a key", I told her. "Momentum. Make sure no one is in front of you when you start down the hill so you don't lose momentum because of something they're doing."

Worked like a charm. We had no problem getting up that hill because of inertia.     

We got home and in the garage. Our refuse container, which I'd had the foresight to cover with a tarp supported by multiple two-by-fours the night before, was quickly accumulating snow, which I knew I'd have to sweep off. 

Then it REALLY started snowing.

We resumed our in-home packing, preparing for next weekend's move to the new place, while the storm really started getting serious. I went out and removed snow from the tarp three more times, then got the snowblower into the mix, clearing out 2/3rds of the drive in the semi-lighted darkness.

This morning, after more snow and high winds overnight, you can't tell I even touched it. But that's OK, though....

...my wife just put a pot roast, with carrots, potatoes and onions, in the crockpot. We may not be bale to get out, but we'll be eating well.                 

The Blame Game

Raising kids to adulthood is no easy task.

I'm not talking about teaching them to read, dress and feed themselves, teaching them to play catch with a ball and glove, how to make their beds, wash their own clothes, tie their shoes. That's the easy stuff.

Teaching them values, morals, character...things that will guide them through life...is much tougher. Right from wrong, honest from dishonest, good from bad. Those are the foundations on which to build and raise a productive citizen who is an asset to those around them. A leader among leaders.

Most of all, we want them to make decisions that will have positive impacts while also learning the value of personal responsibility.

Ah, but there are obstacles along the way, pot holes in the road of life. Single-parent households, less-than-desirable friends, peer pressure...they can all work in concert to hinder the process. Some roadblocks are beyond what we, as parents, can control and can have a profound effect on our young adults.

When that occurs, in whatever form, we must choose how we, as parents, react. We pray the issues aren't insurmountable.         

Or fatal.

On the sixth of December, 2018, 19-year-old Andrew Herrera walked into a San Antonio Popeye's chicken shack wearing a mask, hoodie and brandishing a gun, intent on robbing the restaurant and patrons.

Herrera confronted a man who was dining with his family, demanding his money and pointing the firearm at the man's children. When told by the man that he'd spent his cash on food for his kids, Herrera then turned his weapon on a Popeye's employee, looking away from his initial target.

The seated patron, who has a concealed-carry permit, used the distraction to draw his own handgun and fire on Herrera, striking the masked gunman five times. Herrera died at a local hospital.

While the incident is still under investigation, a police spokesman stated there would be no charges filed against the patron protecting his family.

That brings us to the deceased gunman's mother, Cynthia Ruiz. She hasn't had an easy life; her husband died, leaving her to raise Herrera alone.

While not excusing her son's decision to attempt an armed robbery, she wonders why the man who shot Herrera didn't stop after the first round.

"Why shoot him four more times? Why did he shoot him 5 times?"

Then she added that her son, diagnosed as bipolar and schizophrenic, suffered from mental health issues and that he'd recently stopped taking his medication....in effect, blaming her son's actions on his refusal to medicate and his death on an overzealous gun owner.

Police investigators stated that Herrera was a suspect in several other armed robberies.

The blame game has become endemic in today's society, finding a way to shift guilt onto anything or anyone other than yourself. I don't blame Mrs. Ruiz for what her son did, nor do I blame the unnamed father for protecting the lives of his family and the employees inside that Popeye's on December 6th.
Herrera didn't take into account what effect his refusal of medication would have or the possibility that he would not be the only armed person inside the restaurant.

He should have. The minute he pulled on the mask and drew a handgun, young Andrew Herrera crafted his own destiny. It was his decision, and it was a tragically bad one.

No one else is to blame.

Offended? Get Over Your Fragile Feelings and Grow Up

I write a weekly column for the local newspaper about our military veterans who've served in conflicts and wars from times gone by: World War II, Korea and Vietnam. I put a premium on the opportunities to interview the WW II and Korea folks, especially, because there are so many fewer of them.

There's a Facebook page I run, entitled, 'A Veteran's Story'; all of the veterans that have been profiled to date are on that page. Every week, when a new story is posted, I'll make that week's soldier the profile picture for the page and, if there's a suitable one available, it'll be posted as that week's page background photo.

It's just one more way of honoring these patriots.

Last week's story was about Morrie Sheffer, who served in the Army's 8th Air Corps in Europe during WW II. As part of his duties in the bomb wing's public affairs office, Morrie wrote stories for the outfit's newspaper...an assignment that afforded the young soldier the opportunity to travel all over Europe and write on a variety of topics, including the Nuremberg War Crimes Trials.

He also wrote a story after being sent to tour Dachau Prison Camp, the Third Reich's very first genocidal extermination facility, shortly after the war. 31,951 souls were executed there.

To put that into perspective, imagine a just-shy-of-capacity crowd at the Cleveland Indians' Progressive Field being killed with Zyklon-B gas by the Nazis, victims who were told they were being given showers.

Mr. Sheffer didn't have very many photos from his time in WW II; since he'd covered the Dachau camp, I chose a photo from the internet to use as the weekly page background, a photo from Dachau.

A photo from the Dachau crematory ovens, one showing three prisoners standing beside a deceased victim about to be burned to ashes.

One of the page readers was offended by the photograph, sending me an email to tell me how terribly offended she was and how ashamed I should be for using that picture. She certainly got her moneys' worth. I didn't reply to her communication but, knowing she also follows this page, I will now.

Get over it.

Get over your offended self. What happened at Dachau, and all the other Nazi death camps, is history, very well-documented history. It is a terrible, horrific history, but it is history nonetheless, whether you see those pictures or not.

Conditions were so terrible that, after visiting the Ohrdruf sub-camp at Buchenwald, Supreme Allied Commander Gen. Dwight Eisenhower ordered that members of Congress and prominent newspaper editors be flown to Europe in order to witness the atrocities committed at these death camps. He wanted it on record, in print, in photographs, in newsreels, so that there could be no denial of what had been done to these human beings by the Third Reich.

I will not bend or distort history, no matter how distasteful it may be to some. Your feelings may be fragile but history...and truth...doesn't care.

Neither do I.

Resolutions Made and Broken...Maybe

A conversation with myself...

"New year, new me!"

Yeah, OK.

"No, seriously, I'm going be a better version of me in 2019."

That's the same thing you said last year, remember?

"Well, yes, but..."

That's my point. Good intentions and sincerity turned into the same old you.

"Hold on a minute. I ate better, lost weight and got my A1c down over 2 full points,"

Yeah, you did...for awhile. Then good ol' Mr Temptation eased his way right back into the mix, though.

"Hey, but I did what I set out to do, didn't I?"

True. You're doing OK with the blood sugar and slipped up just a little on the 'eating right' deal but, overall, I guess you were a little different. So, what's it gonna be this year?

"Well, for one thing, I AM going to write a little more. I also want to let go of a few things, you know, put the past behind me and just keep moving forward. 'Can't change the past', as they say, and regret doesn't do anyone any good. I also will be making a concerted effort to get rid of smokeless tobacco."

Really? HA! How many times have you tried that one, then crashed and burned?

"I admit, its been very difficult; this time, though, I have a little extra motivation."

Oh yeah? What's that?

"Her name is Mila, my month-old granddaughter. She's gonna need her Papaw so I have to kick that habit. I mean, who else will make her ornery and spoil her? Plus my wife will be happy if I get rid of the pouches, too."

Yeah, gotta keep your redheaded angel happy. I mean, she's the one who turned you around and got life back on track for you. You owe that woman a lot.

"Yes I do; she sure could have done a lot better than me, that's for sure. I'm a lucky guy."

No, you're blessed. You also need to stop with the self-negativity, bub.

"That's true. If she's happy, I'm happy. Still, when I look in the mirror while shaving, I wonder what she sees in me. She sure didn't marry me because I'm dashingly handsome."

There you go again...

"Right. Sorry."

So, how soon do the pouches go away? It IS January 1st....

"How about....NOW?"

"