The Sandwich

A light-hearted tale this week.

The humble sandwich is probably the most popular food known to mankind. It can be as simple as slapping a cheese slice between two slices of bread or as elegant as the Vegan Smokey Tahini Jackfruit sandwich. I like simple better. One of my favorites is the BLT, Bacon, Lettuce, and tomato with cheese so I guess that should be BLTC. Bacon gently fried, crispy lettuce, thin slices of blood red tomato and generous slices of a medium-aged cheddar cheese. All placed inside two or three slices of your favorite bread, toasted. Be sure to use real mayonnaise as a spread and do not forget to butter your toast. Fat free does not apply here. Pour yourself a cold glass of milk, sit back and enjoy.

This leads me into a story which happened back in the early 1980’s. I was stationed in the Newfoundland and Labrador community of Wesleyville. I lived in a small community called Pound Cove which was just on the north border of the Wesleyville town limits. Pound Cove was established in 1884 and was initially called Punch Cove. I could not find any information on why it got that name. My guess is the neighbors might not have been very neighborly. ‘Get off my land or I’ll punch ye.’ I guess things did not get any better when they later changed it to Pound Cove. Someone must have thought, ‘Get off my land or I’ll pound ye.’ sounded better. If that was the case back then, it was not when I was living there. All the neighbors around me were pleasant and friendly people. Our house always had people visiting for tea or a game of cards. My time living and working in this area will always be in the top ten of my fondest memories.

The Wesleyville detachment was staffed by three members and a detachment assistant. Many small detachments in the province were similarly staffed at the time. If a person wished to report a crime or speak to an officer they called the detachment phone number outside office hours, it was answered by our division telecoms operators. They took the information from the caller, then contacted the member on duty or the member on call. When you live in a small community, people know where you live, so not surprisingly they sometimes came to your door. When we were working on the road somewhere in the area, our spouses had to deal with these persons, taking the information from them and passing it on to us when we came home or calling telecoms and passing it on that way. Nowadays, they would contact the member by cell phone but in the 1980’s this technology was non-existent.

When you are off duty, it can be a bit frustrating when someone comes to your door wanting to make a report. You take their information and relate to them that a member will contact them later. Most are understanding but there are those like the fellow who wanted to make his accident report regardless of my current duty situation. I was in the middle of celebrating a family function when he came to the door. I tried to explain to him that he should go to the office on another day or arrange an appointment with the investigating member, but he was adamant he wanted to make his report at that time. I finally had to get abrupt and tell him I was not going to take his report. He left but he was not happy about it. If it were a serious or urgent matter, I would not have hesitated to respond but in this situation my family was more important that his fender bender.

During a police career, you meet a variety of characters and Wesleyville was not exempt to that. There was a group of fellows I encountered who seemed to get into minor trouble on a regular basis. They were slightly younger than me and a bit on the wild side, but they had a likeable way about them. I guess they were just trying to find their way in the world, like us all. A few times they ended up at my house for something or other. Most times I did not mind them coming to the house, but there was one time, one of them stepped over the line.

It happened when my wife and our sons were visiting her parents in St. Lawrence. On the few occasions when I was alone like this, I would spend my time working and leave the housework until the day before Sharon and the boys would return. The house would be spotless when she and the boys returned, sheets washed and put out on the line, dishes cleaned up and put away, floors vacuumed and just a general tidy up all over. Sharon liked what she saw when she came in the house but suggested in future, I leave the sheets to her. Sheets on the line wagging in the wind when the wife was away might not be the only things wagging.

It was an evening or two after she and the boys left, and I had been working all day. During my shift I had stopped one of these fellows for operating an unregistered vehicle. I gave him a ticket and went on with my other duties. Around 6:00 pm I went home to get a quick bite before I went back to work. I had fried out a few slices of bacon and had my tomato and cheese sliced. I could taste the BLT already when a car came in the driveway with two fellows in it. One came to the back door which opened into the kitchen. This was the fellow who I gave the ticket to. I could smell that he had been drinking as he explained he had gotten his friend to drive him to my house. He came into the kitchen, and I was talking to him as I finished making my sandwich. He wanted to know what he had to do about the ticket, and I explained the process to him.

I turned to get the milk out of the fridge and left my sandwich unprotected. When I turned back with the milk, this fellow had half of my sandwich in his hand and was moving it toward his mouth. I quickly set the milk down and rushed to him grabbing his hand. After a brief struggle, I retrieved my sandwich unharmed. I then promptly pushed him out the door. He said he did not know what I was getting so upset over. He had not had anything to eat that day, and he only wanted a bite of the sandwich.

‘Here is a ticket. Oh, would you like a bite of my sandwich with that?’

Sorry, not the way it works. There are many times when I have gone beyond the call of duty but if you come to my door for something, keep your hands off my sandwich.

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Frozen Scream

A policing career involves dealing with many things most people never see. Death is often one of those. You attend scenes where one or more people have died. It can be a natural death, accidental or due to a criminal action. My first death scene was an old lady who had passed away in her sleep in 1974. A neighbor had gone to check on her, finding her lifeless body in her bed. We responded to all deaths that did not occur in a hospital setting under medical supervision. I was assigned to stay with the body while the senior constable interviewed the witnesses. I read a lot of Stephen King novels back in the day so needless to say my imagination ran wild as I stood watch over this poor old lady.

That was short-lived, thank God, when the ambulance arrived and took the body to the morgue. I drew the short and only straw, so I attended the autopsy the next day. The medical examiner was very professional, explaining everything as he worked away on the deceased. It made the experience more interesting than unpleasant. (But not by much 😊).

I can’t say I ever got used to seeing dead bodies but once the initial shock was gone, you just got on with the job. I don’t think any first responder would argue, it is the death of children that stays with you long after the scene has been finished. Whether or not you have children, the death of a child is a difficult event to cover. The following is a poem I wrote about one such occurrence at a house fire in a small community on the north-east coast of Newfoundland and Labrador in the early 1980’s.

Frozen Scream

Smoke rose in wispy trails

From the remains of the house,

The home

We lifted the girl’s body onto

The stretcher next

To the charred roast

That was her baby brother

Her little body stiff, soot covered

Taken from a living room chair

Where she had tried to escape

Pushing back from the approaching flames

Her tiny face contorted into

A frozen scream

The weight was light but the burden

The burden of two small souls

Weighed heavy on our hearts

We placed the stretcher in

The waiting ambulance

Closing the door on

A memory that would

Wander through our dreams

Forever

Policing

The Badge

My father was a police officer, a member of the RCMP. He served thirty-four years in the Force before retiring in 1987. He joined in Nova Scotia and after training he served in New Brunswick, Prince Edward Island, finally returning to Nova Scotia where he retired. He met my mother in Prince Edward Island and together they started a life together which led to include me and my three sisters. Both my sister, Heather and I followed in his footsteps. He passed away on the 28th of July 2020 at the age of 93. Due to covid we did not have his funeral until October of 2021. It was after his death I wrote the following poem in his memory.

The Badge

This badge sits on my desk

Next to mine to make

A pair but not twins

A story of two lives

One with an ending

The other yet to come

I am happy it is here

To touch and feel

To remember the man

It represents

Yet I wish, oh I wish

It was never here

And back on that dresser

In the bedroom of its owner

Where I could admire it

Whenever I visited and

Sit on that worn bed

While I talked to that man, my Dad

Talking or just sitting quietly

Lost in each other’s presence

However, life is not that way

We cannot live for ever

Not even to one hundred and ten

We must go when our time is due

Passing to whatever is next

Leaving those left behind

With a badge sitting on a desk

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Four O’clock Tea

Wesleyville, a small community on Newfoundland and Labrador’s northeast coast, was one of my favorite postings as an RCMP officer. I served four years there from 1981 to 1985. People were easy to get along with and my wife, Sharon and I made many friends there. It seemed like there was always someone at our house or we were off to another friend’s home for coffee or something else. We transferred out in 1985 and sometime after we returned for a visit. We went out with friends to a dance at one of the local clubs and while we were there someone requested a song from the band for Sharon and Wayne who were ‘home’ for a holiday. That is how Wesleyville was. It was not home for us, but it felt like the next best thing. Good memories were made there.

These days due to amalgamation, it is known as New Wes-Valley. Over forty years have passed since we left that place nestled into the sea and we have made St. John’s our home. We still see friends from the Wesleyville area now and when we meet it is like we are just picking up where we left off. Transfers tend to separate the old from the new. You have every intention of keeping contact but your life in your new community gets in the way. I do regret not maintaining the ties, but I am glad for the time we shared with those people who made our lives better with their friendship.

The story I want to tell you about takes place in Lumsden, another great little community not far from Wesleyville. It was in the fall of the year, and I was working on the files I had for this area. The cool, crisp days of autumn bring the hustle and bustle of people gathering their berries, fish, and other things in preparation for winter. The sound of axes splitting wood and chainsaws sputtering through thick fog are commonplace. One of the files I had involved a minor motor vehicle accident. I had to obtain a statement from an elderly gentleman as he was a witness to this accident.

I rolled up to his door around quarter to four in the day. The missus was hovering around busily as I entered the kitchen. She ushered me into the parlour (it was an old-fashioned Saltbox home) where the old fellow was sitting on a comfortable sofa, reading. I explained why I was there, taking out my statement pad, but before I could get started, the missus knocked on the parlour door. She asked to speak to her husband, and he went out in the kitchen to see what she wanted.

I was left behind while they conversed in the kitchen. I looked around at the surroundings, the old furniture, and other antiques in the room. There were lots of pictures on the wall and as I was examining them, I noted peculiar one. It portrayed an older man with his eyes closed and his arms crossed across his chest lying in what appeared to be a coffin. I guess they did not have an opportunity to take a picture before he died. I was interrupted by the mister returning. He asked me to come out to the kitchen.

When I entered the kitchen, I was assaulted by pleasant smells and sights of the wonderful assortment of breads, cookies, cakes, and other home baked delicacies on the table before me. The mister advised me it was time for tea, and I was invited to join them. I protested politely (not too politely) and said I only came to take a statement from him. He waved his hand saying we could get that after we ate. I gladly gave in to his demands and sat into this great feed. I immediately started to help myself, but I noticed the old fellow was sitting with his hands, on his lap watching his tea. The missus was standing by his side with her hands folding waiting.

I realized at that moment that I was witnessing tradition. Newfoundland had a lot of English; Irish and Scottish ancestry and the people of this province were no doubt heavily influenced with their customs. I had read about this but never witnessed anything like this firsthand. I watched intently as the woman stood patiently until the old fellow nodded his head. The missus spun into action, picking up the spoon from the place setting and squeezing the tea bag and removing it from the cup. Then she added some sugar and some milk and stirred the mixture. She laid the spoon on the saucer and stood back waiting with her hands folded.

The mister sat tolerantly until she finished and then he picked up the cup bringing it to his lips. He sipped some tea, savoured it and with a quick nod of approval he laid it back down. Then the missus buttered some biscuits for him and cut up a bit of hard(cheddar) cheese to go with it. Then she went to her place and fixed her own tea.

Well, that was certainly something for a young husband, like me, to see. This old guy was the king in this household. Quietly I paused, realizing I had observed a valuable lesson before I continued with my very enjoyable luncheon. I thanked the missus once finished and I returned to the parlour with the old fellow to take his statement. I could not stop smiling as I drove back to Wesleyville to finish my shift.

I went home and told Sharon about my day, including in detail, my encounter with this older couple and the afternoon tea. Sharon was quiet as I described this wonderful example of married life. When I finished, she smiled, and rising from her chair she went to the kitchen. Thinking my story had the desired effect, I sat back contented to wait for her return. A few moments later, I heard the back door open, and Sharon cheerfully sang out.

“I’m going to Gert’s for a visit. See you later, honey.”

Without making any comment on my story, she had made her point. Later that evening as I sipped on a cup of tea (which I made myself), I realized some traditions were never coming back.

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The Siren

Another young male police officer was killed today. A civilian was also killed as well as a female police officer being seriously injured. The incident occurred in a Montreal neighborhood. The suspect was also killed. The female police officer was sent to hospital and thanks to hospital staff her life is no longer in jeopardy.

Yesterday, two RCMP officers in Melville, Saskatchewan were seriously injured after being shot while attending a report of assault. They are presently reported as being in stable condition. I imagine from my experience that in both incidents the attending officers did not know completely what they would encounter when they arrived on site.

These incidents caused me to recall returning to Newfoundland and Labrador after attending the funeral of my nephew, Devon Northrup and his partner Morgan Russell in Ontario. They were both with the South Simcoe Police Force and were killed attending a family disturbance in Innisfil, Ontario on the 11^th October 2022. My wife, Sharon and our granddaughter were with me and when we returned, I became aware of a wreath laying ceremony at the Monument of Honor in Conception Bay South (CBS) being held on the morning of October 27^th, 2022. The wreaths were being laid in honor of the four Canadian police officers who had been killed in recent months of which one was my nephew, Devon. I attended this ceremony along with a small group of police and military members. It was an emotional affair bringing back memories of Devon’s funeral which I had just attended. During the ceremony, almost as if on cue a police car with sirens wailing and lights flashing passed by on its way to a call. That pinched my heart, so when I came home, I sat down at the computer and the following poem resulted:

The Siren

Fallen leaves

Soaked with morning frost

Glistened in the bright sunlight

Photos of four fallen police officers

Killed these past few weeks

Watched with frozen smiles as a

Small crowd of retired and serving police

Armed forces personnel and public servants

All stood squinting in the daylight

Around the Monument of Honour

A retired police officer,

His features aged from when

I knew his younger self

Led the proceedings

Followed by the chaplain

With some kind words and

The Police Officer’s Prayer

A police siren wailed

As she read the prayer

Officers on their way to a call for help

Perhaps as unaware of this service

As they were to what would happen on the call

Yet that lonesome and urgent sound

Paid tribute to the deceased

Reminding those present

The work they did and

The work still being done

Is important

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The Last Shift

It has been a heartbreaking week for those in police services as two police officers in Ontario lost their lives in the line of duty. Cst.Tarun Bali was struck by a stolen vehicle driven by an 18 year old man who had escaped from the hospital where he was being assessed under the Mental Health Act. Cst. Bali was seriously injured and later died at the hospital. He had two and a half years service and was posted with the James Bay detachment of the Ontario Provincial Police. Cst. Marc Pinizzotto, an 18 year veteran with the Toronto Police Service was shot and killed by a nineteen year old man during a raid on an apartment building tied to an investigation into recent shooting at the American consulate.

My nephew, Cst. Devon Northrup and his partner, Cst. Morgan Russell of the South Simcoe Police Force were shot and killed while attending a family disturbance in Innisfil, Ontario on 11 October 2022. The suspect, twenty-two year old, Chris Doncaster, then shot and killed himself. Devon’s parents, my sister, Heather and her husband, Ron and their family were deeply affected by his death.

These officers paid the ultimate sacrifice in the execution of their duty. Their bravery will always be remembered but it will be forever mixed with sorrow. The following is a poem I wrote after Devon’s death. It is a tribute to him and to all those in uniform who work everyday to keep this country safe for us.

The Last Shift

He stood strong and tall

Checking his uniform

In the mirror

A photo of his uniformed parents

Watched as he brushed

A speck of lint

From his pants

Satisfied he started for

The door then pausing

He turned and walked

To the kitchen table

Where his partner sat

Drinking coffee

He kissed her and

Flashed her that big smile

That smile that said

‘I’m happy. Life is good.’

Then closing the door

He left

Life is not always warm and gushy. Perhaps as a police officer, you learn that more quickly than other occupations. Generally, that realization comes right after you leave the training academy. Police training involves simulated situations where the tasks you are taught are managed in a structured manner where everything seems to fit. ‘So, that’s how it’s done.’ The instructor would say. Simple enough, but it does little to prepare you for what happens when you get to your posting.

Exercises at the training depot were done with a partner or a group and you make decisions based on everyone’s input. When you get out in the field (on the job) you quickly learn what the phrase ‘fly by the seat of your pants’ means. You discover you are the lone person working especially in small communities and outports. That has been a good part of my experience in policing in Newfoundland and Labrador. Often, I have found myself in situations where the nearest backup is more than an hour away.

What do you do? When you are single the answer is perhaps a little cloudy, but when you meet someone and start a family, it is clear. Your responsibility lies with keeping safe and going home at the end of your shift. I have always tried to face every situation as best as possible but there were times that I backed down, and probably others when I should have backed down, but I remained. You plague yourself whether you were right or wrong, but it was your decision, so you accept it and put it behind you.

I was stationed in the detachment of Ferryland, a small community on the east coast of Newfoundland and Labrador, from October 1974 to April 1976. It was a three-person detachment which covered around eighty kilometers of road and included communities like Renews, Cappahayden on one end and Mobile and Witless Bay on the other. It was a cool night in October 1975, and I was working the night shift alone. I was twenty-one years old. I was patrolling the highway between Tors Cove and Mobile when I came up behind a blue Dodge Dart which was taking both sides of the roadway.

I engaged the emergency lights and slowly this vehicle pulled to the side of the road. I tried the radio before exiting the vehicle and there was no signal. I was in a dead spot (an area where no radio communications were possible). This was common in the province. You might travel a hundred feet and get a signal however, I was not able to do this, so I jotted the plate number down on my night sheet. If something happened, then at least the investigators would have something to go on. I could see one person sitting in the vehicle, patiently waiting for me, as I put my hand on the door handle.

A cloud of fog escaped my mouth as I exited the police car and approached. The quiet of the night was broken only by the swish of the trees moving with the light wind. The highway was deserted. I shone my flashlight on the back seat as I neared the driver’s door. Nothing there. The driver’s window was open, and wisps of alcoholic fumes reached my nostrils, as my light shone on the driver. He was quiet as he stared back at me with his watery eyes. Closer examination revealed eyes so bloodshot they could easily pass for a map of a heavily populated area.

“Can you step out of the car, please.” I spoke with the tone of authority like my trainer; Brian Campbell had told me. A tone that let them know who was in charge. The man shut off the car and removed his keys. The door wobbled as he followed my directions. My initial observation was that the man was stocky, but when he stepped out, I was not prepared for what I saw. He stood about six feet tall but that was not the remarkable thing about him. I had often heard the line, ‘he was as broad as he was tall’ and thought no one could ever meet that description. This man proved how completely wrong I had been in that thinking. He had to be every bit of three hundred pounds on a conservative estimate. I realized I was no match for this cousin of Godzilla, and I would have to resort to trickery. I breathed deeply trying to cover the unease in my voice and said,

“Why don’t you come back to the police car for a little chat?”

To my surprise he started towards the police car with its lights flashing, warning no one. When he got to the rear of the car he stopped and fumbled with his keys and started to open the trunk. Warily I let him proceed. When the trunk opened, I could see an open two-four of beer (Labatt’s 50) on the trunk floor. He quietly reached in and got two of the stubby bottles and put one in each of the side pockets of his suit jacket. Stubby bottles for a stubby man, I thought wondering what would happen next. I guess, he thought our chat would be more of a social occasion. Nothing like a couple of beer when you are talking to the police on a lonely road in the middle of nowhere.

This was something I would have to deal with later, I thought as the man closed the trunk with a clump. I felt relieved as he trudged to the police car. I directed him to sit in the front passenger seat as I wanted to see what was going to happen to those beers. Surprisingly, he sat in the car without any fuss, and I jumped in the driver’s side. I quickly put it in reverse turning it towards Ferryland. I stepped on the gas and brought the cruiser up to the speed limit. I quoted the Breathalyzer demand from memory as soon as I put the car in motion.

The man exploded into a tirade of verbal abuse, calling me every name in the book and ‘gentleman’ was not on those pages. The lights of Tors Cove were in the distance as I nudged the speedometer a little above the posted speed limit. A few minutes later the man became silent. I could hear him rummaging in his pocket for a beer. All the cursing had apparently made him thirsty, I guess. Having retrieved the bottle, he now was trying to use the seat belt fastener to open it. We are talking the dark ages here. Long before seat belt regulations and twist off caps. I snatched the beer from his hands and put it under my seat, well out of his reach. A barrage of non-dictionary terms spewed forth from his lips. Suddenly it was like a light snapped on in his head when he realized he had another beer in his other pocket.

He pulled out this bottle and was again attempting to use the seat belt opener when I deftly seized it, placing it with its mate. I could hear an uncomfortable wail as this Goliath started to cry. Yes, cry. Tears of rage streamed down his cheeks as he blared out descriptions of me that even my own mother could not love. He calmed somewhat, still muttering but low enough for me to radio my situation and request a Breathalyzer technician. I was still about a half an hour from the detachment when he accused me of not being a Newfoundlander. I said I was not, and he said,

“That’s right because you haven’t got the guts to jump out of this car right now.”

The car was travelling at just above the speed limit, so I took this as only his raving. I replied, “Well, if you want to jump out at fifty miles an hour, that’s your prerogative.”

The shock jarred me when I heard the click of the door opening and saw him start to get out. I grabbed his coat and managed to pull him back in and he shut the door. The blood was flooding my veins like Niagara Falls, as I warned him not to do that again. Shortly after, he tried again. Again, I grabbed his suit coat and managed to get him back in and get the door closed. Now I was the one shouting at him to stop this crap. It must have influenced him as he did not say much as we drove through Cape Broyle and up Cape Broyle hill. My heart rate was slowing down, and I thought the worse was behind me. I was at the top of the hill when I heard the door open again. I reached for his jacket, but I felt the material slipping from my hand as I slammed on the brakes.

The car slewed to a stop and the man rolled out of the car and was gone. There was only a small shoulder on the side of the road which dropped off to a treed valley below but no sign of Baby Huey. God, he’s dead I thought as my heart began to beat with a sledgehammer. I leapt out of the car and ran down the hill. I fully expected to find a rotting corpse with bulging eyes and lolling tongue (I read a lot of Stephen King at the time) lying at the bottom. Thankfully, all I found was a blubbering hulk staggering around urinating on a new growth of fir trees. He was holding his manhood with both hands like a mountain climber holding a safety rope, sobbing uncontrollably.

I managed, with a great deal of effort, to get him back to the top of the hill. This time I placed him in the rear seat and as I closed the car door, a taxi driver had pulled up behind me. It was the only other vehicle I had seen during my ride with this creature from the black lagoon. I explained to the driver my circumstances and he agreed to accompany me to the detachment. He sat in the vehicle and the other person in the taxi drove it behind me. When we arrived at the detachment, I thanked the taxi driver, and I brought this man into the office where I presented him to the Breathalyzer technician. Relief washed over me as the technician, Corporal Wayne Collicutt explained the procedure to this man.

“I am not going to take no fucking Breathalyzer test.” He was adamant so I did not bother to explain that he had used a double negative.

Wayne told him he would be charged with refusing the Breathalyzer test. I prepared a promise to appear and presented it to him. I offered him a ride home. We did have a cell at the detachment, but we did not have any guards available. That would have meant me sitting with him overnight, so the best scenario was to drive him home. Wayne came with me as we began the drive to Bay Bulls where this man lived. The trip took about an hour, long enough for Captain Grizzley to do a repetitive critique on my driving abilities, as well as my future as a police officer. We dropped him off at his address and he left us with a middle finger thank you.

Looking back, I find humor in this incident, but it was a long time before I did see the funny side. I could only see the ‘what ifs.’ What if he drank the beer? What if he had been killed? I guess the ‘what ifs’ I was thinking about belonged to other people. People who were not there, who did not experience this firsthand. They are seldom there when trouble raises its fiery head. No, the only one you must depend on is yourself. Your decisions must be made in seconds and sometimes they might not be the prettiest solution but if it works why beat yourself up over it. Learn from it and move one. One less impaired driver on the road, now that’s Titanic!

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A Large Decision

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Good Breeding

Early in the job of policing, you learn you are not always the strongest, the fastest or the smartest person. There are times when you cannot wade in and do things the same old tried and true ways. Sometimes you must improvise to get the job done.

In the early 1980’s I worked in a three-person detachment in the community of Wesleyville now known at the town of New-Wes-Valley. It is situated on the northeast coast of Newfoundland and Labrador. The detachment area encompasses the communities from Musgrave Harbour to Trinity on the Bonavista North Peninsula. Frequently we worked alone. If you needed backup, you called on the off-duty members on the unit. If they were unavailable the next option was to call either Gander or Glovertown detachments. Depending on where you were in the area that could mean anywhere between thirty to ninety minutes or longer for backup to arrive. Given those odds, you often had to deal with any situation the best way you could.

Fortunately, most weekends there were two members working. On those nights you tried to contact as many of the local troublemakers as possible. This generally meant, stops for traffic offences and impaired drivers, and checks for illegal drugs and offences under the liquor control act. Some people might say, why bother someone for drinking a beer in public or smoking a joint. You should be out looking for people committing more serious offences. Yes, they are minor offences, and the consequences are minor as well, but a sizable percentage of offenders are often under the influence of alcohol or drugs when committing the serious criminal acts.

Stopping someone for an open beer or a joint would be a buzz kill for them. More importantly, it will most likely change their actions for the night. They might not be so interested when someone mentions about committing a break and enter. They have already been charged once that night so why risk it again. I like to think this type of enforcement has that kind of preventative measure behind it. Besides, word gets around that the police are on the move and that is a good preventative measure as well. Furthermore, when I was a kid, the police chased me for open beer, so I would not have wanted the youth in my policing days to feel left out. I have always been an equal opportunity kind of guy.

All this brings me to a Friday night in the early 1980’s when I was working with Constable John Butt. There was a teenage dance at the Badger’s Quay (a community about a ten-minute drive from Wesleyville). We regularly patrolled these events to show our presence and check on any unacceptable behaviour. Often, these dances were attended by fellows in their twenties who had not taken the chance to grow up. Frequently, they were the source of trouble on these occasions. We pulled into the parking lot noting two older fellows standing by the rock hill across from the back of the dance hall. One of these fellows was one of our regulars, especially when he was drinking.

As we approached the two, we noted a dozen box of beer, and they were drinking the beer right there on the side of the road. We stopped the police car and immediately our regular took to the hill. The other guy stood there with the beer case and John went to him. I raced up the hill. I was breathing heavily as I reached the top of the hill and cursed the extra chicken leg I had for supper. I still had the guy in my sights, so I continued. There is something about a chase; you cannot seem to give it up once you get caught up in it.

There is a little voice inside saying, ‘Can’t even catch a drunk. Boy, time for you to hang up the twinkies. Stubbornness keeps you going despite everything else. The terrain had rocks jutting out, holes and boggy parts which made the running in the dark a bit hazardous. I began thinking this fellow was going to get away when inspiration struck. I opened my mouth and barked. Yes, I barked like a dog, hopefully a large dog.

Well, at that moment this guy took a worried look behind but unfortunately for him, he kept running at the same time. He tripped and fell into the bog, and I caught up with him. I got him to his feet and both of us stood facing one another, doing nothing but breathing heavily for a few moments.

Finally, between breaths he said, “Gees, I thought it was a German Sheppard.”

I smiled as we walked back to the police car thinking the success of this chase could be attributed to my good ‘breeding.’

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Sing

Policing often involves struggles, physcial and mental everyday you go to work. Some days you fight to wrestle a drunk from behind the wheel and other days you battle with advising parents of the death of their child while waiting for them to answer the door. Without a doubt, this is one of the most difficult duties a police officer does. This poem goes out to all those who have experienced this part of the job.

Sing

Sing a song

Oh, to sing a song

To make people feel,

Happiness, love or

Just some pleasant emotion

Making everything right

This, I thought as I wrestled

The drunk to the ground

He had run over a teenaged girl

With his high-wheeled truck

A girl who wanted to be a nurse

Her parents were proud to say

Now, an empty dream

He was wrong but the system

Would work in his favor

Despite his struggles with me,

The lowly cop, who would

Be to blame.

You should have this

You should have that

His lawyer would say

The girl would be forgotten

I think, as I knock on her parents’ door

If only, if only,

I could sing a song

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A Private Moment

When I was a boy of maybe eight or nine years old in the early sixties, my father took me out in the police car. This was when we were living in Sussex, New Brunswick and while many of my young memories have slipped away, this one stayed. It was just me and my Dad which didn’t happen that often when you had three other siblings so it was special to me.

A Private Moment

When I was a small boy

I rode with my father in

A police car and listened to

Him as he rhymed off the

Names of the cars we saw

That’s a 59 Ford Fairlane, there’s

A 57 Chev, a 54 Dodge wagon and

Look a brand-new T-bird

I didn’t know any of those names but

I knew a few birds like robins and sparrows

Though I never heard of a T-bird

He was in uniform when he

Took me on that ride

A thrill for me because

Cops were the good guys

And my Dad was one

It was a moment between

Father and son, privately shared

I grew older, a teenager, when

Having a cop for a Dad, was not cool

I could not deny he was a cop, but I denied

I was like him; I would not tell on my friends

They included me in their drinking

And a few other unsavory things

Things I shall not mention here

Cops were pigs, that is what they

Said and I let it go just to

Gain the trust of those people

People I don’t even remember now

I regret that, because he wasn’t

Just a cop, he was my father

I was never like him but

When I became a cop

It was then I understood

How much we were the same