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The Graduation

High School graduation. One of the important milestones in a person’s life signifying the time when you move from your childhood stepping into the adult world. You leave that bedroom in the basement, the parents who raised you and the siblings you endured but secretly loved for all those years. Now it was just you to stand on your own two feet, survive and make something out of your life. Perhaps it is a little different now, children stay in the nest longer but still at some point it must be the same.

My graduation was in 1972 at Charlottetown Rural High School in Prince Edward Island. Before things like Safe Grad so shortly after the ceremony we all left for the parties. Food and alcoholic beverages had all been purchased in advance and were stowed away until the time was right. I am not saying this was the right thing but that is the way it was done in the Seventies. The memory of my graduation is…well, the important thing is that I had a fun time and ended up home in one piece. The graduation I remember most is not my graduation. It was one that occurred in the community of Wesleyville in the Bonavista North area of Newfoundland and Labrador, now known as New-Wes-Valley.

It happened when I was stationed there between the years of 1982 and 1985. I know little about it other than I was there on that night but this one incident sticks in my head. Wesleyville detachment was a three-person unit which covered the communities between Musgrave Harbour and Trinity and all the lands between that area. Point to point the distance is roughly 120 kilometers and the population at that time was around 7000-8000. Many times, it was patrolled by one member with back-up about two hours or more away depending on where you were at the time.

One of the things, we tried to do while on night patrol, to keep criminal offences down was to enforce the liquor control act. Many criminal acts involve persons who have consumed alcohol or drugs. Some young people while under the influence make poor decisions such as becoming involved decide to become involved illegal activities, things they would not have done in sober condition. It seems like a good idea when they are in a group. Enforcing the liquor control act, interrupts this thinking pattern and thus prevents the commission of an offence or so we thought. Maybe it worked, maybe it didn’t.

It was on a weekend in late spring and Lester Pearson High School was having their graduation dance. Constable John Butt was on patrol with me that night and we were aware of the dance. We had decided we should show the colors and swing the police car into the parking lot to throw a scare into those drinking by their cars. It worked because there were dozens of mostly young men in suits dropping beer and running for cover. We got out of the car and picked up the discarded beer, emptying them on the ground. I noticed one young man running for the woods as fast as his legs could carry him. I chuckled as I thought he would huddle in the woods until we left and then he would return to the dance.

Once we had emptied out the beer bottles, we threw the empties in the trunk and left the parking lot. Thinking our appearance had curbed the drinking activity at least for a little while, we continued our patrol. We had only driven a kilometer or so when we came upon a young man walking on the side of the road. He was dressed in a suit, but he was soaked to his arm pits. We stopped and I spoke to him. He told me he had run into the woods to get away from us as he had been drinking. Once he got in the woods, he found it difficult to walk on the slippery ground with his dress shoes and he slipped falling into the brook. He was walking home because he could not go back to the dance with his suit all wet.

I could not help but feel bad. It was certainly not our intention for anything like this to happen. I offered him a drive home and he got in the back seat. His house was another couple of kilometers up the road and when we pulled in the driveway, I let him out of the back seat. He thanked us and I told him not to thank us yet. He looked at me with questions in his eye and I said, “Get in and get changed. We’ll wait for you and drive you back to the dance.”

He dashed to the door, and it wasn’t ten minutes later that he was back. We drove him back to the dance and as we pulled into the lot, there was no one around. I let him out of the back seat, and he stood there before me. I told him to enjoy himself and stay away from the drinking. He teetered awkwardly on his feet and nervously he said thanks before running towards the gymnasium.

Our patrol was quiet that night, we checked a few cars, sometimes strategically in front of the clubs, and responded to a few minor calls. End of shift came, and we went home with one of us advising telecoms we were on call until the morning shift. I slid under the covers next to my wife and settled in. I thought about this young fellow and wondered if he had enjoyed himself as I drifted off. His first step into the adult world was certainly a wet one but maybe that night we all played a part in one of life’s lessons. We all fall down, make mistakes, but it is important that we get back up and move forward. When we do, there just might be someone there to help us, even if it is with a twinge of regret.

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Eleven

September 27, 2026, will mark the 28th year of the Canadian National Police and Peace Officers Memorial Day since it was proclaimed on September 24th, 1998. Since then, it has always been held on the last weekend of September. It will be attended by police and peace officers across this country to honor those of them that gave the ultimate sacrifice for their communities and their country. My sister and her husband, Heather and Ron Northrup will be in attendance with their son, Brock and his family. Their son, Devon, a constable with the South Simcoe Police Service and fellow officer, Morgan Russel were shot while attending a call in Innisfil, Ontario on October 11, 2022.  They were two of eleven police officers who died in the execution of their duties during that same year.

Whenever I attend a solemn occasion such as this, there is always some little thing that stands out to me. It sticks with me and I find I must write about it. The following poem, I wrote after I attended the services in 2023. The young girl in the photo is my great niece and daughter of Brock and his wife, Elise.

The late September winds

Softened the warmth of the

Sun as we sat on folded chairs

The Peace Tower overlooking us

Uniformed police and peace officers

Hundreds of them followed

The marching band on the grass

Until they all stood at attention

Silently behind us

The wind died and the flags

Clung to the poles as if

Sensing the importance

Of this moment

Visitors stood outside the fence

Murmuring amongst themselves

Upon hearing the Parade Marshall’s

Deep, gravelly voice shout

“Parade, stand at ease!”

Quiet prevailed

The Emcee opened the

Ceremony followed by the

Governor General, the

Minister of Public Safety and

Other officials, all offering

Solemn remarks for this solemn occasion

Until it was time to bring forth the dead

Those eleven brave men and women

Who died in this past year and

Would now join hundreds of other

Police souls who adorn the

Glass walls of remembrance

Which stand silently as the

Ottawa river and city

Serve as their background

Each name read aloud

With a brief history,

A history of human beings

Who lived, loved and

Believed in something so

Strongly they gave their

Lives for it

Once read, the march past

Began, each group giving

Eyes right as they passed

The hats, the hats worn by

These courageous officers

Whose families must push on

Walking back to our hotel

A lump formed in my throat

And I wondered how

The answer came as I

The small child

Walking in front of me

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Circuit Court

Circuit court was a common event back in the 1970’s and 1980’s in the province of Newfoundland and Labrador. The judge, court reporter, prosecutor, and defence lawyers would travel to designated communities to hold court in service club and community halls, usually once a month. It was a big occasion for the local folk, and many came to watch the proceedings. They could see what was happening in their community and hear first-hand, the details of some of the crimes occurring in their neighborhood. Some were just rubber-neckers, trying to see what kind of trouble their friends or neighbors had gotten into, but some were just interested in seeing how the justice system worked.

Justice represents fairness in our society. Fair treatment for all, offenders, and victims alike. It is a high ideal; whether it is an achieved is always open to opinion. Victims of crime argue they have no rights in our system. An offender has the right to silence, to a lawyer, to be tried within a reasonable time, and many more. However, a victim of a crime must provide information to the police, must testify in court before the accused, must be subjected to cross examination by defence lawyers, must wait months and/or years for the resolution of a case. Otherwise, there likely will be no charge and the lawbreaker walks free.

That discussion has been ongoing for years, and hopefully, at some point it will be fully resolved, until then, we will have to take things as they come. The circuit court continues today but they do not travel to as many communities as they once did. Today it has been more centralized, and modern technology has opened new doors in serving justice to the masses, such as closed-circuit television to facilitate proceedings like bail hearings, witness testimony, and other similar hearings. It might be working better, but I think we lost something when the courts stopped going to these small towns. These forums of justice might not have been as polished as what we have today and in some cases, they may have been somewhat backward. However, it was where justice was served best; it was justness closer to the bone. People are human and not just another number on the docket.

The Newfoundland and Labrador court system in the 1970’s did not have many lawyers on the prosecution side outside of the St. John’s area and in some places the RCMP policed, a police officer took on this duty. When I was in Grand Falls there was a sergeant who was the operational non-commissioned officer. He reviewed all the investigative files and supervised the members on the general duty shift. Part of his duties was overseeing the prosecution of cases that went to court. This sergeant knew the criminal code inside and out. I would say he had a better knowledge of criminal law than most of the lawyers, and some I think were a little afraid to face him. He was deadly.

He did not only intimidate lawyers, most of the police officers on the detachment did not argue any legal points with him. You could not bullshit your way through a file. If you tried that, when he reviewed your file the red ink would be flowing like a severed artery. And, if the Montreal Canadians lost a game, you better choose your words wisely if you were stupid enough to speak to him. Those who did not follow hockey much, often made the mistake of commenting on the game. Those folks quickly found out how it felt to have your bare brain spanked with a leather belt.

The province started staffing more lawyers for the prosecution in the late 1970’s and members did not have to fill in this role as often. If you were a senior member (five years of service or more) back then, chances are you would have taken on this function at some point in your career. I never liked performing this duty. At no point in my life did I aspire to be a lawyer. Just give me what I need to enforce it was my attitude towards the law. Despite my feelings, I had to represent the prosecution on occasion. You never received a lot of notice when you had to do this. Sometimes it was the night before and sometimes you found out the morning court was held. 

Most of the work did not require a lot of effort, reading the details of the offence on guilty pleas but occasionally there was a trial. This did not happen often, but when it did, you had to suck it up and do the best you could do. The circuit court when I was in Wesleyville was held in the community hall in Pound Cove. It generally had more spectators than provincial court sites in bigger centres, a lot more. There was a tendency for the audience to become a little unruly and if the judge did not exercise his control immediately, it could easily get out of hand. Generally, it was just a lot of talking during the proceedings but sometimes the community residents would take a more active role. On one such occasion, I was managing the direct examination of a witness in a trial of theft, I believe. I had just asked the witness a question and before he could reply, a member of the audience jumped up and shouted, “Objection!” 

The judge who was present that day was a mild-mannered man who was just trying to perform his duty. He did not control the court room and things got off the rails. He did manage to explain that people who were viewing the proceedings had no right to interject in them. This did work to a certain extent but there was still a lot of low chatter which made it difficult to concentrate on the proceedings. 

There were two judges from Gander who oversaw the Wesleyville circuit court on a scheduled basis. The mild-mannered one and one I will reference as the gruff one. He was a big man with a deep voice and when he opened court you could hear a pin drop. No one dare speak for fear of spending a night in jail. This was the judge in attendance when I had one of my more memorable prosecutions. It was an incident of assault that I had investigated a few months previously. It involved an altercation between two fellows at a bar in which one was struck in the face with the other’s fist.

I presented my case, and all was going well. I did not have a defence lawyer to face as the accused was defending himself. I had the upper hand, things were proceeding smoothly to a win, but then I called my star witness, the victim. He swore to tell the truth with his hand on the Bible and sat down. So far, so good. I then asked him to tell the court the events of the night in question. Expecting him to relay the date, the location, and his surroundings like he did when he gave his statement, I was taken aback when he said in a squeaky voice,

“Well, he give I a flick and I give he a flick.”

I was speechless. The courtroom was silent as this man’s words hung in the air. How could I respond to this? The victim had now included a consent issue to the altercation. He had taken part in it which was not portrayed in his statement to the police. How could I resolve this? My mind was whirling with these questions when I looked to the judge. 

Upon hearing the witness’s comments, the judge’s jaw dropped. He remained with his mouth open in disbelief for a few seconds before slowly responding in his loud gruff manner,

“Sir, what in the hell, is a flick?”

The witness made a waving motion with the back of his hand, causing the judge to utter a painfully loud sigh. 

Sensing the judge did want any more of this foolishness, I conceded that I had no further questions for this witness. I stated unnecessarily,

“That concludes the case for the crown, your honor.”

“I guess it does. Case dismissed.”  The judge replied abruptly.

He then proceeded to give me a lecture regarding police evidence and court room procedure to the delight of the audience. Court ended shortly after, thankfully. The witness came to me as I was leaving the court, enquiring about his witness fees and expenses for gas. Through my teeth I advised him to attend the detachment office for this. 

The witness followed me down, and once inside, I got the advance to witness receipt book and paid him. He shook his head as he said to me,

“I guess things didn’t go well.”

I did not say anything. I just stared at him, my eyes piercing through him. After a few seconds, he backed out the door sheepishly. I continued to stare as he departed with one sole thought,

‘I should give he a flick!’

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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 11th 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 27th, 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

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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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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

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Monster

It’s that time of year again when the danger of wildfires is ever present. Many of us in this country live near wooded areas where we enjoy a variety of activities. Camping, fishing, hunting, hiking, photography or just enjoying the peace of nature are enjoyed by many in Canada and so it should be. However, this can quickly change, endangering the safety of the environment as well as the people, property, and animals who live in or around our forest. A fire can start by accident, carelessness or in some cases intentionally. Last year the people of this country suffered tremendous loss due to fires. It was the second worse wildfire season surpassed only by those in 2023. Over seven million hectares of forest land was destroyed impacting communities and their economy.

In the province of Newfoundland where I live, the most serious fires were in Conception Bay North affecting several communities there destroying and damaging 203 structures and displacing hundreds of residents. Last year while reading one of the news articles on these fires, it reminded me of a wildfire in the Grand Falls, Newfoundland I attended when I was a young member in the 1970’s. Grand Falls was no stranger to wildfires and this was one of my first experiences with this type of castastrophe. The location of this one was on New Bay Road and fortuneately for me there was an old firefighter on the scene when I arrived. He had seen more of these fires than I ever would. The following is a poem I wrote about this experience.

Monster

The tires crunched on

The gravel road as I

Rolled up behind the

Fire truck blocking further access

Closing the door of my cruiser

I walked through the

Heat to the fireman

An older man with

Eyes of experience

Watching the fire

Smoke curled low and high as

Slowly the blaze devoured

The brush and trees in front of it

Some tall giants falling

Splashing embers silently in

The roar of crackling wood

Hypnotized by this scene

I stood there in my youth until

The chief, dressed in bunker gear

Touched my shoulder

I turned to face him as

He spoke calmly

We need to move back now

We backed down the

Road about a hundred meters

Moments past as the beast

Licked the blood from its lips

Before rising into a gigantic

Ball of orange blasting us

With its heat before swallowing

All oxygen in the air

Surrounding it as it

Rolled across the road

Where we had stood

Consuming, destroying

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Uncategorized

The Oath

Sgt. Joe Sobel at Remembrance Day 2011 in St. John’s, NL

I swore an oath that August day

So many, too many, years ago

To perform the duties expected of

A police officer in this country

I swore to do these duties without

Fear, favor, or affection of or towards

Another person and I affirmed this with

So help me God

I was young and I skimmed over

These words when I signed

The document with a theme

I did not fully understand

It would take years to realize

Despite these words I would experience

Fear, loathing, hate, and other

Emotions from the darkness

I would understand the perfection

Everyone wants is unattainable as

We are imperfect beings

Living in an imperfect world

People do not like to be told

They are wrong and lash out

At the conveyors of that message

To reverse their perceived abuse

Police actions video-taped and judged

Before any court has a chance to convene

Convicting with little evidence and

Showing superiority over the lowly blue

Still when there is trouble they reach out

To those in uniform to take care of it

But do not do it wrong and

Bring it back wrapped up in a bow

Years after I left that suit behind

I watch the news and feel sorrow for those

Still working to maintain law and order

Only now I fully understand that oath

It is swearing to do the impossible

To strive for unachievable perfection

Being set up for most certain failure and

Signing nevertheless on the dotted line

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Policing

Will You March For Me

Will you march for me?

By Wayne Hebb

I marched through this country

Keeping peace, maintaining the right

For you to be safe and free

Sometimes with a gun or with fists

Scars, maybe one or two

Would not stay in the past

Now, that I am through

My time comes at last

When they play last post,

Sending me home with dignity

The thing I want to know is

Will you, yes you, march for me

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