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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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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 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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