I was in the yard a few days ago, digging the flower beds, cleaning up the debris left from the late fall and winter, spreading mulch, just trying to make it look presentable.  When I am working like this, I often think about things in my past and roll them over in my mind.  Perhaps I am doing the same with my brain as I am doing with the yard.  The following story is one that came to light during my tillage of yard and soul. I have changed the names and locations due to the sensitive nature of this matter.

The boy came up to me as I entered the gym of the Carlton Elementary School.  A few days earlier, I got a few of the members of detachment to join me for a game of floor hockey with the students at this school as part of the Police week celebrations.   The school was in the small town of Carlton which is about a half hour from the RCMP detachment located in the town of Bufferton which is responsible for policing in this area.   The boy was about nine-years old and he was smiling at me as he said,

“Hi Constable Hebb.  I’m Ronnie.  Do you remember me?’

“Why, yes, I do, Ronnie.  How are you doing?”  I said without hesitation, while I searched my memories.

It finally clicked that he was a victim of abuse I had investigated about two years prior.  I got the call on a cold day in March 1986, the day after my birthday.   I am a believer that something special happens on your birthday and while this report was not on my birthday, I think the incident happened on it.  Ronnie’s mother had cut him with a razor blade.  It certainly was not special because of that, rather it was the message or lesson I learned because of meeting this child.  The young boy standing before me was shy but had come out of it when he recognized me.  He was excited to see me and I do not know why, because when the police were involved in your life, it is most likely not a good memory.  We were getting ready to start the game and not knowing what to do, I took off my watch and I gave it to him.  I asked him to look after it for me while I played in the game.  He looked at the watch and then back to me and swore he would take good care of it.   He ran off to the side where the other students were gathering to watch the game.  Perhaps I could stop here, and you might think, what a nice thing to do, and then you would include that in your frolics down your memory lane.   Unfortunately, I do not know when to shut up when I am ahead, so I will continue.

I started the investigation by interviewing witnesses to gain information and finally I felt I had enough to have some degree of understanding about what happened. The boy lived with his mother and younger sister in an apartment in one of the low-rental housing areas which were nicknamed Section One and Section Two.   He and his family lived in Section One.  His mother met me at the door.   She was a single mother and there was no evidence of even a remote fatherly interest in this little family.   She was on social assistance, welfare it was commonly referred as, and the stress of raising two children on her own had driven her to alcoholism as well as searching for love in all the wrong places, to coin an old phrase.   She was combative at first, saying that I was not talking to her son without a lawyer, but I talked with her and after a while she reluctantly agreed to accompany me to the detachment office for further investigation.   Once at the office, I brought Ronnie and his mother into one of the interview rooms and as they sat down, I could see Ronnie had three small cuts, about an inch in length, on his cheek just below his left eye.   Some other members were assisting me, and they updated me with the information they had obtained.  The mother was placed under arrest for assault causing bodily harm.  She told me that Ronnie’s injury was the result of his getting hit with a snowball and she denied anything about razor blades being used.   She was later remanded and placed in the detachment cells to appear in court on the following morning.  

Social Services had arranged to have Ronnie’s grandmother look after the children until they could sort things out.  While we were waiting for the grandmother to arrive, I gave Ronnie and his sister a drink and some cookies I found in the coffee room, as well as some paper and pens so they could do some drawing.   Before their grandmother arrived, they came out to me and gave me their drawings.   They both had drawn a house and Ronnie’s was quite big with a small door and too small windows near the roof.   No doubt some psychologist or behavioural expert could tell you what mental processes were at work, but I just saw a child’s drawing of a home.   They both wanted me to have these drawings and I accepted them with a smile.  It was their gift to me, I do not understand why they wanted to do this for me, the man who arrested their mother, but I kept them all these years.   

When Ronnie’s grandmother arrived at the office the children were interviewed in her presence.  Initially Ronnie had denied the existence of the razor blade, insisting, like his mother, that his injuries were caused by him getting hit with a snowball with ice in it.   Now with his mother no longer present, he related he had been hit by a snowball and when he came to his mother for help because his cheek was red and swollen, she used a razor blade on his injury.   His mother, in her drunken stupor, got the razor blade by breaking open a disposable plastic razor.  Ronnie told us his mother had thrown away the razor blade, but she had put the remainder of the plastic frame in the pocket of her housecoat.  A search was conducted of the house and the plastic remnants were found in the house coat as Ronnie had described.  I do not remember if the razor blades were found.

The matter went to court and the mother plead not guilty and a trial followed.   The star witness for our case was less than stellar on the stand.  Very much so.  I can definitely say, it wasn’t the only time that I had seen a witness chew gum while giving testimony but it was the first time I had ever seen one pull it out of her mouth and swing it around on her finger.   And…she did it more than once.   The defence lawyer was able to convince the court that the mother’s actions were not assault but a misguided attempt to relieve, what she thought, was pressure on her son’s injury.   I can accept that I guess, the court has to insure it gives the accused the benefit of fairness in assessing the evidence, but I always wonder where that benefit is when it comes to victims, especially children.  

Yet, that is it, isn’t it?   There are no rules as to what parents you get when you come into this world and there are no requirements for being a parent other than the physical ones.   You cannot drive a vehicle without a licence from the government, but you can raise a child, a delicate human being, without any conditions.  That is an old thought and I am sure you have heard it before, but it always gives me reason to pause.

Now back to the floor hockey game.  We played valiantly against the grade six students, but they outscored us in the end.   The children cheered for their fellow students and for the willing losers and it was one of the better memories of my policing life.  Except, that after the game, I looked for Ronnie and then he showed up holding my watch out to me and I felt bad.   You see, when, I gave him my watch I had this thought that maybe I would not get the watch back.  It was only a forty-dollar Timex so I do not know why the thought even entered my mind.   Yet, I do.  Police officers are suspicious in nature and the more experience you have in policing, the more suspicious you become.   This was a child and the only reasons I had this thought was because he was poor and because of his upbringing.  It was only brief but so is saying the F-word out loud at a church service. 

 I thanked Ronnie and patted him on the back in front of his classmates.  It was a big thing for him, to have held this watch for the policeman.  A lot of young boys back then, (not so sure if that is the same today) had an image of the police as the hero in blue but on that day, I silently trashed that image with a single thought.  A thought that has never been spoken or made audible but shame rings inside my skull all the same.

My shame has faded now but I learned a valuable lesson from this little encounter. Everyday, millions of thoughts are processed through our brains and not all are good or helpful, but we are in control. We direct what we act on. We are all imperfect people living in an imperfect world expecting perfection, but that perfection is different for each and everyone of us. Each day we must pay attention to the notions occurring inside our heads. Examine them carefully, for the lazy gardener reaps many weeds.