In Memory of a Hero

The rainbow comes and goes;
And lovely is the rose;
The moon doth with delight
Look round her when the heavens are bare;
Waters on a starry night
Are beautiful and fair;
The sunshine is a glorious birth;
But yet I know. where'er I go
That there hath pass'd away a glory from the earth.

William Wordsworth

Very few boys nowadays truly become men except by simply aging beyond boyhood to adulthood. It sometimes seems that we have more adult males than we have men, that the measure of a man is too difficult to attain.

Nick Xiarhos became a man while still in high school, the day he signed his name to become a United States Marine. Nick knew the risks of fighting, yet he signed up and returned to battle time and again because he understood the risks of not fighting, of not standing up for what he believed in, of not using his life to make the world a better place. He honored us all with his courage and his dedication to duty, family and country. His commitment to us repeatedly put him in harm’s way. Yet he persevered because he was a United States Marine.

Marines’ lives are challenging. They live what they fight – terror, hunger, aggression, isolation, carnage, despair. Marines live on the edge of a knife. Their lives are a sacrifice. And a Marine’s death is a tragedy. It creates a hole where a hero once stood, leaving, in the wake of his deeds, his footprints in the sands of foreign lands.

Nick was not shoved into heroism by the draft. He stepped forward from a line of his peers and volunteered to fight. With no promise of martyrdom or eternal reward, he and his comrades left their community basketball courts and summer beach parties to confront any enemy who challenges our freedoms. They are an example that not all of our young people are lost to rap music and video games, an example that there are things greater than ourselves that are worth fighting for.

Nick’s footprints in the sands of Iraq and Afghanistan will be sifted away but the imprint of his work there will never fade. It lives on in hope. His life and death prove that the American way is still worth something, still worth fighting for, still worth dying for.

Nick has earned his place in history, and in Heaven. He did not throw his life away in a pointless dispute over drugs or money. He gave his life to us – for us – and it’s our duty to continue this fight for him. It’s our duty to envision his footprints in those sands and keep terrorism at bay. It’s our duty – our burden – to venerate, respect and understand his motives and his mission, his sacrifice.

Nick stood out from his peers and rose to greatness because he believed in something. It’s so easy to die for nothing, to let death surprise you on a rainy day. It’s another thing to face death every day, to live a life of virtue and honor, to die for country, duty, family and freedom.

And all of those will endure if we recognize his sacrifice.

Nick died for you and me, for friends and family, for complete strangers, for what he believed.

What is the measure of a man? Certainly not his age. It’s not what he covets but what he holds close to his heart. It’s not what he owns but what he gives. It’s what he leaves in the hearts and minds of others when he isn’t with them, and when he’s gone.

Nick, Corporal Nicholas George Xiarhos, age 21, United States Marine, was a man.

God bless the Xiarhos family, Steven, Lisa, Alexander, Elizabeth, Ashlynne and especially Nick.

Officer Jill Wragg, Yarmouth Police Department (Ret.)

With every friend who has been taken
into the brown bosom of the earth
a part of me has been buried there;
but their contribution to my being
of happiness, strength and understanding
remains to sustain me in an altered world.
Helen Keller

to leave condolences for Nick's family go to:
http://www.legacy.com/gb2/default.aspx?bookID=5300119896826&page=68&sort=1

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Judge W. James O’Neill

Judge O'Neill stepped out of bounds when he chose to lecture his full courtroom about a Yarmouth Police Officer. http://www.capecodonline.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20090129/NEWS/901290317/-1/NEWSLETTER100

Who does he think he is? Judge Judy? Since when is it a judge's place to comment on the conduct of people in his courtroom? He is there to decide matters of law. To go on a public tirade about a police officer's tactics is childish, rude, and unprofessional. He had a captive audience - anyone who tried to leave, attempt to stop his rant or openly disagree with him could have been found in contempt - and he took advantage of it to bash a good police officer.

O"Neill referred to the operator of the vehicle as a "motorist," implying that "motorists" are innocent, unarmed, law abiding citizens. Perhaps Judge O'Neill has never visited the Officer Down Memorial page. "Motorists" are responsible for the deaths of police officers every year. "Motorists" stab, shoot, beat to death and run over police officers at an alarming rate, even Cape "motorists." Those officers who aren't killed are left maimed and unemployed. One officer I know worked as a State Trooper until he pulled over a speeding "motorist" who stepped out of his vehicle with a loaded shotgun and blinded the officer for life http://www.visionsofcourage.com/ . Officer Van Ness himself learned three weeks after this incident that a "motorist" can use his car as a lethal weapon http://uneflic.blogspot.com/2008/07/one-officers-view.html .

I and every other cop in the world would have reacted to the suspicious, evasive behavior of that Cape "motorist" in exactly the same way as Officer Van Ness. Judge O'Neill needs to stick to what he knows best - law - and leave the actual enforcement of the law to the professionals.

I invite him to attend a citizen police academy and go on a ride-along in the "early morning hours" (which means "the middle of the friggin' night") because it's obvious he has never put himself in the shoes of a cop. If the behavior of the "motorist" didn't raise the hairs on the back of Judge O'Neill's neck then he has never been out alone after dark.

Judge O'Neill's behavior is the scary behavior. He needs to step down off of his pulpit, and his bench. If he is so obviously biased against police officers that he would lambaste one in his open court, then he is not fit to judge any matters brought to him by hard-working law enforcement..

One Officer's View . . .

There was an officer involved shooting in my Town. The man who was shot was an illegal immigrant with a rap sheet and a permanent restraining order from the mother of his two children. She was in the car with him at the time of the shooting, has already hired a lawyer (2 days after the shooting,) and is demanding justice because he was a "good" man.

I skipped all those facts in this essay because I hoped the media would print it if I did. They refused, arguing that they're being responsible by not printing anything that could affect the outcome of an investigation or trial. They could be responsible by printing both sides, inflammatory or not, and letting people choose which one they agree with instead of printing a constant barrage, however subtle, of one view.

I find it hard to believe that reporters will put together a story that doesn't include the facts that I used in my piece.

The one thing they will leave out is that the officer did his job correctly. To a civilian, that is an objective statement. To a cop, that is a fact, able to be proven by countless manuals and policies and procedures amassed from years and years of trial and error on the street.

It will be okay for the reporters to quote the man's friends, saying he was a great man and a great father but it won't be okay for reporters to quote the police who will say that Officer Van Ness is a great man and a great father. The DA will not release Van Ness' record of commendations, his lack of any disciplinary problems, or his previous life-saving incidents. Those will have to be dug up by people who are actually interested in a truly unbiased account.

Meanwhile, the woman who had a permanent restraining order against Martins has free rein in the media with her cute face and sad eyes, telling the world that he was brutally murdered. People are raising money for her and her kids. The world doesn't know that Officer Van Ness had to pack up his little family and drag them out of the state for their safety because people will go to his house and harass him and his family members. He can't answer his phone, or open his mail without being exposed to hateful things. His house could be vandalized. His wife is terrified, for him, for herself and for her children. No one is setting up a college fund for her kids. It all seems a little unfair to me.

I don't mind that this won't be published as much as I am troubled by why it won't be published.

In two days, I will mark the 9th anniversary of the line of duty death of a great cop and a cherished friend (http://uneflic.blogspot.com/2007/05/lost-friend.html) I am thankful that I will not have to mourn Officer Van Ness, too.

Please share this in support of Officer Christopher Van Ness.

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One officer’s view…

By Jill Wragg
JKWragg@yahoo.com

In a tragic course of events, in the dark hours of Sunday morning, a man died at another man’s hands, in our little town of Yarmouth Massachusetts.

I am sorry that Andre Martins had to be killed. I would be more sorry if Martins had killed Officer Van Ness.

The two could have met under different circumstances that very same night. Martins and his girlfriend could have been injured when their car was rammed by another motorist who didn’t care about following the rules of the road, who didn’t care about injuring other people. Officer Van Ness would have been there to provide life saving first aid or CPR. Or Martins could have been the victim of a crime, attacked by another man or threatened by someone racing a car at him. Officer Van Ness was on duty, waiting to respond without hesitation and ready to risk his life to protect Martins’ life.

Instead, they came together when Martins threatened the lives of his girlfriend and countless innocent civilians by careening through a quiet neighborhood at the wheel of a 3000 lb steel weapon.

In this unfortunate scenario, Officer Van Ness was there to protect that quiet neighborhood, to prevent Martins’ heavy Lincoln from catapulting through the wall of a home where children were sleeping in their princess and race car beds, or where you were sitting watching TV in your living room with your feet up. Officer Van Ness was there to stop Martins from continuing a rampage through town, perhaps even hurtling through the neighborhood where Martins’ own children lay sleeping. And Officer Van Ness was there when the decision to use deadly force had to be made. Everyone else was home safe in bed, home safe in bed because Van Ness was there.

Van Ness and his colleagues were awake at that hour of the morning to protect us. They work throughout the night while we sleep, ready to rush to our aid if we need them, on the hunt for anyone who might be lurking in the dark intending to do us harm. They work Christmas, Thanksgiving, on their religious holidays and during their kids’ birthday parties. Yes, they chose the job. They chose the job that you rejected in order to stay home watching TV in your living room with your feet up. They stepped up to the plate to stand between good and evil. They took a side in a fight that’s getting ever more difficult. The people who didn’t have the conviction to take a side seem to be the ones who complain the most. The people who fear the dark are the first to judge those who defy it. The people who have never had three quarters of a second to make a life or death decision are the first to complain that they’d have handled it differently.

Reports from his friends say that Martins was a “good” man. Perhaps he was. Or perhaps we now live in a world where “good” can describe Martins’ lifestyle and his actions that night. My definition, the “old fashioned” definition, of “good” defines Van Ness, his lifestyle and his actions that night.

In a perfect world, Martins’ and Van Ness’ children might have played together at a Yarmouth playground under the watch of two young fathers who adored their kids and who worked hard to provide the best life for their families. In this imperfect world, Martins forced Van Ness to take an action that no cop wants to take. One young family has lost its father. Another young family, a family with small children who routinely watch Daddy walk out of the house to confront and take down the evils of society, got its father back.

Van Ness did his job that night, and he did it correctly, right down to the part where he went home alive.

Jill Wragg is a retired Yarmouth Police Officer.
Her views do not necessarily represent the views of the Yarmouth Police Department or its staff

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Remembering C.Ja.

Christopher Jason Adams Sullivan
June 2, 1987 - July 3, 2008

-------

I Meant To Do My Work Today
by Richard LeGallienne

I meant to do my work today,
But a brown bird sang in the apple tree,
And a butterfly flitted across the field,
And all the leaves were calling me.
And the wind went sighing over the land,
Tossing the grasses to and fro,
And a rainbow held out its shining hand,
So what could I do but laugh and go?

-------

I haven’t known C. Ja. very long. I ran some errands on his behalf while he was in Florida at motorcycle mechanic school but I didn’t get to know him until he moved back to the Cape. I was lucky to have that opportunity. And I knew I was lucky when it happened. He was that kind of guy.

C. Ja. brightened my life when I was with him. One minute, he was a kid with a wicked grin and an endearing laugh. The next minute, he was a daring teenager with a passion for guns and motorcycles, and a bold wit. The next, he was a young man - empathic, caring, stumbling into his future caring for and teaching kids. But he was always C. Ja., the same little kid I can see in his baby pictures, the same kind, sensitive, intelligent, funny, beautiful person we all saw.

In a typical C. Ja. encounter last winter, I teased him on a particularly cold day because he had no coat and was shivering. I reminded him that he wasn’t in Florida anymore and that it would get colder. I suggested he grow up and go buy himself a coat. He said that a winter coat would “turn up.” That was so C. Ja. that I didn’t bother to retort. If he thought a winter coat would drop out of the sky, he could be right. He was C. Ja., after all. He did foolish things but he did them with enthusiasm. Enthusiasm on his level could grow a coat on a tree. The next time I saw him, he was wearing one. He smiled when I complimented it and modeled it for me. “My Mom bought it for me,” he said. “Isn’t it great?”

When I worked with him at the store, the banter was constant. We could have been brother and sister. Sometimes the customers were amused; sometimes they were mortified. He entertained me with stories of adventures with his friends, fast cars, lots of alcohol, camaraderie and laughter. We talked about guns and bikes and his family. He outlined his plans to marry a “good” girl – not one of those “raunchy” girls who didn’t dress modestly or who belched like a guy – he wanted someone who would behave like his mother. And he ranted about keeping his little sister Alexa away from the bad boys who would take advantage of her.

Most of the time, my little nephew came to work with me. He loved going to “Mrs. Sullivan’s store” and always asked, “Is that guy going to be there? C. Ja.?” On those days, I did all the work. C. Ja. played with my nephew, rolling on the floor, making paper airplanes, teaching him how to catch and throw a ball. Sometimes they had sword fights with wiffle bats. Sometimes they played hide-and-seek. C. Ja. was the perfect playmate – a grown-up who remembered the way to Sesame Street. It was a meeting of the minds. When the line at my register backed up, customers would pass the time by asking, “How old is he?” I always answered, “Which one? Well, it doesn’t really matter. They’re both five; one’s just a little bigger than the other one.” Penny, his Mom, told me that she promoted C. Ja. to six a few weeks ago when he did something with uncharacteristic maturity. I guess it had to happen some day…

When C. Ja. stopped working at the store, I missed him. He stopped in occasionally, most notably a few days after his recent car accident. He let me admire the gash on his head. When I exclaimed about his quick recovery, he quipped, “I heal fast” and hopped over the console to take the wheel of Penny’s open convertible. I didn’t look back to see if he’d finally heeded my latest lecture about wearing a seatbelt. It was too hard to be stern with him; too difficult to keep a straight face when he flashed that smile and he got that amused twinkle in his eye.

In Paul’s letters to Timothy, he wrote, “We brought nothing into this world and it is certain we can carry nothing out.” I don’t think that’s true. C. Ja. came into the world with the love of only his family. He lived every day of his life. He left this world with the love and admiration of so many people. He left this world with the legacy of touching so many lives, creating little differences here and there, brightening many dreary days. Twenty-one years doesn’t seem like much but, in the end, a man is judged by how many lives he’s touched. I know that I was not the only one taken by his charm and his antics and his kindness. He remains with us, within us, and he will go many places with the people who know they would not have been the same without his touch, however strong, however brief.

****************************

I cannot walk by day as now I walk at dawn
Past the still house where you lie sleeping.
May the sun burn away these footprints on the lawn
And hold you in its warmth and keeping
Vikram Seth

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If I should die and leave you here awhile
Be not like others sore
Who keep long vigils by the silent dust
And weep

For my sake turn again to life and smile
And nerving thy heart and trembling hand
Do something to comfort other hearts than thine

Complete these dear unfinished tasks of mine
And I
Perchance, may therein comfort you
Saint Joseph

****************************

from The Cape Cod Times

Mother: 'C.Ja.' just wanted to help others

By Aaron Gouveia

agouveia@capecodonline.com

July 06, 2008

HYANNIS — All Christopher Sullivan wanted to do was help others, his grieving mother, Penny, said yesterday.

Sullivan, who was known as "C.Ja." to friends and family, died in a motorcycle accident in Hyannis Wednesday.

Although many people in the area knew Sullivan from his job at the Yarmouthport Village Store and as a landscaper, she said, the 21-year-old East Dennis man found his calling when he took a job as a YMCA camp counselor, working with troubled teens.

Sullivan had recently completed the background check required for a position at the Brewster Treatment and Detention Program.

"He had his own difficulties and then he decided to help other kids through it," Penny Sullivan said. "He was a very sensitive person and definitely a kid at heart."

Police said Sullivan was killed when he lost control of the bike and struck a tree while driving through the intersection of South and Sea streets.

Next to working with kids, Sullivan loved riding his motorcycle, his mother said, adding that he spent two years in Florida studying motorcycle mechanics.

Sullivan's friend, 19-year-old John Mather of Yarmouth, described Sullivan as "the best friend you could ever have" and said the two planned to live together in the fall. He said nothing could change his friend's love of motorcycles.

"If anything happened, he would just hop on his bike and ride," Mather said.

An investigation of the crash is ongoing, Barnstable police said.

Staff writer K.C. Myers contributed to this report.

To view
C.Ja.'s Remembrance Book
click here: http://www.legacy.com/CapeCod/GB/GuestbookView.aspx?PersonId=112858300

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Lessons From Dogs

As a child, I looked out the window on road trips, pretending to run alongside the car through the hills and yards. A lone German Shepherd inside the highway fence caught my eye one day. He was trotting along, looking forlorn. I begged my father to stop so we could catch the dog. I was terrified that he would be killed. We didn’t stop. That day on our return trip, I saw a dog carcass on the shoulder of the highway. I didn’t know if it was the same dog, or even the same area but the memory stayed with me. And the lesson – follow your instincts.

I’ve learned a lot from dogs.

My grandparents’ Newfoundland, Blackie, taught me about personal responsibility and holding up my end of the bargain. He had an easy life. He was even treated to a bowl of ice cream in front of the TV every night. But, spoiled as he was, he repaid my grandparents by treating them like royalty and being the best dog he could be.

A Black Lab named Shadow was my companion when I was eight. His participation in his owner’s hobby, duck hunting, turned my stomach. I was convinced that Shadow shared my distaste yet he performed his repugnant job with spunk and style. If Shadow could jump into an ice cold lake to retrieve a bloody murdered duck, I could clean the toilet without (too much) complaining.

I found Mr. Sweets in a neighbor’s yard, chained to a dog house. He was matted and flea ridden and adorable. A good grooming revealed a handsome Schnoodle. We renamed him Mr. Bojangles. His dedication as my willing sidekick helped me to become a better friend.

Trooper was a burly German Shepherd at my kennel job who liked to bite everyone but me. We had a special bond. When I visited him at his new position as a guard dog, he lunged at me and ripped the end of my sleeve. If I hadn’t been quicker, he’d have ripped off my arm. The lesson? Sometimes it’s best to leave the past behind.

Kali was born in a friend’s house at the end of the school year. I used the “she followed me home, can I keep her?” line, and it worked. By the end of the summer I learned the true meaning of devotion, as only a Shepherd could model. Her shamelessness, and friendship, and undying loyalty showed me that dogs have souls, too.

Kevvie, aka Kevlar, the Giant Schnauzer, was meant to be my police K9 partner but her heart wasn’t in it. The day she became entangled in a wayward rope with a terrified squirrel showed her true character. She squealed in pain as the frantic rodent bit her over 70 times on the face and neck in its efforts to escape. Instead of killing it with her massive jaws, she gently pulled it off each time. Still entangled, it attacked again and again until exhaustion rendered it helpless and I was able to cut them free. Kevvie was true to herself and kind to smaller creatures, gifts I admired and endeavored to possess.

Paxil, my current Lab, is an expert at pleasure, both giving and receiving, and at fun. Everything is her favorite. And she has the best stress management strategies: karaoke – howling at sirens, cheap aroma therapy – rolling in every vile, vomitous substance she can find, and soothing water therapy – splashing in the tub with a child. The lesson she expounds is that there’s good in everything if you look (or smell) long enough.

In addition to the lessons I’ve learned, my dogs have taught me about myself. I learned I am a loyal friend when I stood between Bojangles and an angry Doberman with gnashing teeth who outweighed me by ten pounds. I discovered that I am courageous, and foolhardy, the day I headed into a riptide to save Kevvie who was being sucked under and tossed about in terror. I was surprised by my strength of character when I defied the vet and insisted on staying with Kali when she was euthanized. And I wasn’t embarrassed when I brought friends home the day Paxil left half-eaten underwear in the living room and scattered the contents of the bathroom trash throughout the house.

My dogs have been building blocks in my life. The cats? They haven’t taught me anything, except maybe to mind my own business and keep the food dish filled.

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

*** This piece is copyrighted and can be used with permission only. ***

Save Your Lost Child

I saw a tip on Parent Hacks
- http://www.parenthacks.com/-
about locating a lost child and I wanted to expand on it:

When you begin your day out on the town with your kid(s), use your camera phone to take an individual photo of each of them, head to toe, and a second shot close-up of each face.

If your child wanders away from you at the park, or in a store or mall, or at any public place, your phone photo will be the best way to offer a description to police / security personnel, and even helpful strangers.

When I was working as a cop, it was maddening to take a report from distraught parents who couldn't give a really good description of their lost child.

Time is important in these instances - any lost child could be an abduction case - and trying to drag a good description of the child's clothing from parents (who are so frustrated that they actually start to argue about the color of Junior's shirt) creates delays that could be deadly.

A simple camera photo taken at the beginning of the shopping trip could be emailed in seconds to the mobile phones of every security officer / police officer in the area, and even to the computers at the police station and/or main gates of major attraction parks.

The photo would show the child's current outfit from head to toe, her exact hair color and style, and any accessories being worn that day. A close up of the child's face would be frosting on the cake.

There are other, supplemental, ways of recovering a lost child (like using a Sharpie pen to write your mobile phone number on the back of your child's hand) but those put the onus on your child to realize that she is lost and to approach a stranger and ask for help.

This phone camera trick would be the best option for recovering a wandering child who is happily browsing the toy store unaware that he's left his parents far behind, and for saving the life of a child who has been grabbed by a stranger who is trying to spirit him away from the area.

It might be a tough habit to get into but it can become as much a ritual as reminding your child to buckle up.

The Donut Dilemma

Stop me if you’ve heard this one: a cop pulls a man over for OUI and says, “I know you’ve been drinking, your eyes are glassy.” The man responds, “I know you’ve been eating donuts; your eyes are glazed.”

Everyone knows a joke about cops and donuts. There are jokes about earning donut “merit” patches for saving lives and about cops revoking the drivers licenses of people who take too long in the Dunkin Donuts drive through. There’s a bumper sticker that reads, “Bad Cop, No Donut.” People send email pictures of a mock crime scene with police tape around a half-eaten donut. Most cops have gotten donuts as a gag gift. I got a lovely pink box with a dozen Boston Crème for my Academy graduation. My family spent years joking that I’d fix tickets for them in exchange for donuts. One of my brothers still insists that my line of duty injury involved falling off a stool at Dunkin Donuts. Firefighters get in on it, too, teasing officers about a new and improved donut, powdered with a dark blue sugar that won’t ruin their uniforms. And even cops joke about their five basic food groups: glazed, jelly, powdered, chocolate frosted, and “ghetto,” the donuts that are left over after a long meeting of the command staff.

It’s not really an addiction - cops can give up donuts any time, especially when their colleagues’ kids are selling girl scout cookies. Besides, it’s not really about the donuts. Not many cops even eat donuts. The donut jokes are what counts. Humor comes in handy when things get serious. When you’re a cop, things can get serious, fast.

Police play a one-sided game every day. It’s a violent game and the cops are the only ones who have to follow the rules. Experts often describe police work as long periods of mind-numbing boredom followed by moments of sheer terror. Every encounter could end with the officer’s death but he is expected to be polite and professional until that actually happens. A bad day for you might involve a fight with your boss, or a network crash, or maybe a missed lunch break. A bad day for a cop might involve breaking up a gang fight, or taking an abused child away from his parents, or spending a lunch break amidst blood and broken glass on the roadway. If one police officer doesn’t meet the media’s expectations, they’re all brutal, or racist, or bungling fools. If one officer does something heroic, the rest are still brutal, or racist, or bungling fools.

Civilians want to hear stories of shootouts, and fiery rescues, and bodies strewn along the highways but cops most often share the stories that involve breathtaking incompetence. A cop’s job security is an incurable disease called stupidity, and many people are carriers. When they don’t know who to call for information about the landfill hours or fireworks, they call the police. They dial 911 if they’re too lazy to look up the number. Why not? The little girl who’s drowning in a local pool won’t mind the extra seconds it takes for the operator to get rid of their call and take the call that might save her life. Indeed, many people call 911 for any threat to public safety – you know, a cable outage on the Red Sox’ opening day, or to report that their friend’s kid went swimming without observing the wait-thirty-minutes-after-eating rule. It’s a trend. Someone loaded your dishwasher the wrong way? Call the cops. Someone ate just one Lay’s potato chip? Call the cops. Left your really expensive stuff out in plain view in an unlocked car? It will be their biggest priority.

They don’t mind. Really. Your room temperature IQ will provide them with the humor they need after doing CPR on the infant who was left in a stifling hot car while his parents shopped for a big screen TV. The fact that you didn’t know there are inappropriate places to pee will keep them laughing when they are trying not to think about what your neighbor did to his own daughter. Cops don’t mind handling all of your problems. They like to say that they enjoy the challenge of being expected to immediately stabilize a situation that took years to deteriorate.

When there are three police cruisers at the donut shop, people complain that their tax dollars are being wasted. They joke that Dunkin Donuts is the “police substation.” Most likely, the cops inside are on a well-deserved break - relaxing, sharing a moment of peace with some colleagues and enjoying a warm, friendly, muted cup of coffee. It’s also possible that the manager called 911 when someone tried to use an expired coupon…

Donut shops and cops will always be a team, until, that is, someone discovers a way to administer coffee, and loyal camaraderie, with an IV. And the donuts? They are very tempting, after all, and the alter of truth, justice and the American way won’t collapse if a cop eats a donut.

George Orwell said "We sleep safe in our beds because rough men stand ready to visit violence on those that would do us harm."

Who cares if those rough men (and women) are clutching a frosted jelly donut with rainbow sprinkles in one hand?

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

*** This essay is copyrighted material;
no reproduction or excerpting is permitted without written consent
from Jill Wragg (JKWragg@yahoo.com) ***




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Warriors

This movie preview needs to be shared but I have one complaint...

WHERE ARE THE FEMALE WARRIORS?

Why are they always left out? Female soldiers were left out of that StopLoss movie, too.

Women are coming back maimed and killed, too, from battlefields, not from positions way behind the front.

War isn't just about brave men anymore. There are brave, freedom loving women there, too.

War isn't just about losing fighting men anymore. There are women over there fighting, not just in support positions, but in actual battles.

Why are these brave women left out of the documentaries and the media reports?

Are we incapable of seeing it? Unable to watch? In GI Jane, the main character asked, "is a woman's life worth more than a man's? Is it more hurtful when a woman dies?"

I think this looks like an incredibly moving movie but where are the female warriors who gave their lives and limbs for freedom? Where are the words of the mothers, daughters, sisters, and wives who are dying for their country?


watch this:

http://www.warriorsthefilm.com/Movie.html

Operating Under The Influence

People sometimes ask me, “Are we really safe?” Some people fear burglars, some fear assaults, some fear vandalism. Some simply fear the dark.

So, I decided to ignore everyone’s fears and deal with reality. I decided to discuss the subject that should be your biggest fear. To identify the most random acts of violence that occur with the most frequency. To highlight the crime that victimizes more innocent people than any other. To narrow the topic down to the crime that most frightens police officers.

Any guesses?

I’ll give you a hint. No matter where you live in the U.S., it goes by a nickname of three initials.

Need another?

No matter what it’s called, it indiscriminately maims, kills, and destroys families.

Keep thinking.

It is the most frequently committed violent crime in the United States.

More?

Nationally, it kills an average of two people per hour, 45 per day, and 315 per week with no regard for age, gender, race, or religion. Last year, 15,786 people were killed.

Give up?

The answer is OUI – operating under the influence of alcohol.

Did you know that there’s a difference between an “accident” and a “crash”? One involves chance. The other involves an intentional act that endangers lives. That intentional act is getting behind the wheel after consuming alcohol.

More people are arrested annually for OUI than for any other crime except larcenies. Approximately one percent of the national population is arrested for OUI every year.

So, how serious is it? Does the term “it’s like shooting fish in a barrel” mean anything? That’s what you’ll hear if you ask a police officer how easy it would be to find a drunk driver if the officer had no other responsibilities. Unfortunately, with minimum shift strength and strict budget constraints, we don’t have many opportunities to go fishing. We have to be content to grab the OUI‘s that cross our paths while we are answering calls for domestics, responding to alarms and handling fights in bars.

It amuses us when defense attorneys claim that their clients were targeted by overzealous officers who “troll” the streets around bars, hoping to catch an innocent driver exiting the parking lot. After reading these statistics, wouldn’t you prefer that your officers had time to actively pursue people who drive while impaired? We certainly wish we had the time to “troll”. Imagine! Time to catch drunk driver after drunk driver and prevent fatal crashes and innocent pedestrian deaths!

Fat chance.

We finish one call, hoping to catch our breath before the next, and stumble across a car that’s weaving. That’s all we have time for. And that’s where the odyssey begins.

An arrest for OUI is the most time consuming event in a police officer’s shift.

The stop of an erratic driver can take between 20 minutes and several hours. Twenty minutes for the questioning of a driver who swerved while sneezing. Several hours for visiting the victim’s family when a drunk driver kills. The only guarantee is that we have removed a potential killer from the roadways.

The paperwork is overwhelming. While booking the prisoner, we explain that, in Massachusetts, he does not have a “right” to a breath test. Rather, he is deemed to already have consented to take a breath test, simply by virtue of his driving on a public way in the state of Massachusetts. If he refuses the test, we are required to fill out even more forms to suspend his license. Once the intricate booking procedure is complete, we begin compiling a report. A report that hardly seems worth the effort when it is torn to shreds in a court of law.

Our report will cover how the operator’s driving caught our attention, how he responded to our questions, and whether he smelled of alcohol or appeared intoxicated. It will contain information about the operator’s performance on the field sobriety tests, his blood alcohol content according to a Preliminary Breath Test (PBT) at the scene, and his alcohol content as determined by the Breathalyzer at the police station. It will include all of the information that led us (and would lead a reasonable juror - a member of his peers) to conclude that he was, in fact, operating while under the influence of alcohol.

Unfortunately, not all of that pertinent information will be presented to the jury.

Did you know that an operator cannot legally refuse to perform field sobriety tests? Did you know that if he does refuse, the refusal cannot be mentioned to the jury? If you were a juror, would you wonder why the officer didn’t mention those tests? Would you think the officer forgot to ask the operator to perform them? Would the thought that the officer was remiss influence your decision about the operator’s sobriety?

It gets better.

Did you know that we use the roadside Preliminary Breath Test (PBT) to confirm that the conclusions we drew from the operator’s driving and his performance on the field sobriety tests were correct? Did you know that, as a juror, you aren’t allowed to reach that same conclusion because the PBT results cannot be admitted as evidence?

Wait, there’s more.

Did you know that an operator’s refusal to take the Breathalyzer at the police station is not admissible in court? In fact, no one will even mention whether the test was offered. If you were a juror, would you wonder why all references to the infamous Breathalyzer had been ommitted? Would you think the officer forgot to administer the test? Would you think it meant that the operator had passed the test?

My response as a juror, as a parent, as a driver, as a member of the community threatened by this operator’s complete disregard for safety would be, “What’s up with that?”

If you call the courthouse and ask what percentage of the operators arrested for OUI were actually convicted of OUI, you won’t get an answer. Those statistics are not available. If you know any police officers, ask them what percentage of their arrests either go to trial or are convicted of OUI. The answer will disgust you.

Most OUI arrests result in dropped or reduced charges. Those slaps on the wrist result in repeat offenses. Statistics compiled by Mothers Against Drunk Driving (MADD) show that about one third of all OUI arrests are repeat offenders. One third of the people driving drunk in your town have been arrested for OUI before.

Some of them were stopped and arrested soon after leaving the bar. Some of them drove badly enough to contribute to a crash between two other cars. Some of them struck and injured pedestrians. Some of them struck and killed pedestrians. Some of them were involved in crashes themselves. Some of them were injured. Some of them injured their passengers. Some of them were killed. Some of them killed their passengers. All of the people involved were doing what we all do every day of our lives – using our roadways. All of the people involved were someone’s friend, someone’s child, someone’s neighbor. All of the people involved could have been you.

We try to help our intoxicated friends by taking their keys because we are worried for their safety. Maybe we should start a campaign to take the keys from our sober friends, too. We should also take bicycles from our children. And ban lovers from strolling the sidewalks hand in hand. And forbid grandmothers from walking their grandchildren to the park. And outlaw jogging.

As long as there are people who drink and drive, everyone near the road is at risk.

We have a poster in the lobby of the police station that shows a crumpled car wrapped around the base of a big tree. The caption reads, “If you drive drunk, you’ll be lucky if it’s a cop that stops you.” Perhaps the caption should read, “If you use our roadways, you’ll be lucky to get home alive.”

Does that answer your question?

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

What Would You Say?

I have many pictures of family and friends on the wall inside my front door. I get obsessed with the arrangement. I’m constantly adding the most current or most flattering picture of the people I like to think about. But there is one picture that doesn’t change.

It’s a picture of a girl. Her long hair is fine and straggly. She’s wearing cut off shorts and a t-shirt. She’s reclining in a bean bag chair on the lawn with her legs spread apart in a decidedly unladylike pose. There’s a litter of four week old puppies sleeping on the ground between her ankles. She’s smiling as she holds one puppy up to the camera. She’s the picture of contentment. She’s completely indifferent to fashion or beauty. She’s happy, and secure, and unencumbered. She’s a treasure. She’s a souvenir.

She’s me on my tenth birthday.

She’s the me who used to make sentences with her alphabet cereal. The one who always shared her Hershey bar with the big Labrador from down the street. The one who could down a bottle of Orange Crush without taking a breath. The one who thought that lying in bed listening to a summer thunderstorm was as exhilarating as a roller coaster. She’s the little girl who finally got brave enough to tear the tag off her pillow, who always had a book nearby, who brought salamanders home in her pocket, who raced motorcycles on the weekends, and who cried every time she read Bambi. The one who insisted that she’d attend Harvard, and who knew she could throw a ball further than the boys, and who was careful not to step on ant hills. She’s the daredevil, the giggler, the shy one, the brat. She used to be me.

I keep that picture because it’s a reminder of my beginnings. In that little girl’s eyes are the dreams that propelled me, the ideals that guided me, and the foundation that grounded me. She stays up on the wall because she’s my soul. She stays up on the wall because I’m afraid of losing sight of her. That little girl stays up on my wall because I can’t see her in the mirror – not even if I squint. She’s my hero. I think the world of that girl. Sometimes I wonder what she’d think of me.

If I were to take that ten year old out to lunch, what would she say?

She’d be happy that I am independent and able to fend for myself but she’d be disappointed that I’m not able to beat the boys at all of their games. She’d be glad that I pet every dog that I see. She’d wonder why I don’t sleep outside or walk in the woods for hours and hours. She’d be surprised that I haven’t memorized all of the constellations. She’d be pleased that I am a vegetarian. She’d be amused by the number of dresses in my closet and by the one pair of heels next to my cowboy boots. She’d be amazed that there are no college diplomas hanging next to the mementos of my adventures – but she’d be impressed by the adventures.

She’d offer me one of her stuffed animals because she’d think I don’t have enough. She’d encourage me to get up earlier and stay up later. She’d invite me to climb trees, and watch sunsets and build snowmen. She’d expect me to laugh more, and tell me stories or tickle me until I did. She’d like my big, high bed and my classical CD’s. She’d tell me that she wants to hike the Appalachian Trail and join the Peace Corps and run a marathon. She’d be envious that I went for a walk with a guide dog, lived in New York City, looked into the Grand Canyon, performed CPR on puppies, made friends with people from Europe, and actually saw Madame Butterfly. She’d laugh at my car and tell me to get a Jeep or a motorcycle.

We’d talk about what a great movie Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory is and about how Tolkien’s trilogy is the best reading ever. She’d be concerned that I don’t spend enough time with my dogs but thrilled that I remember Hamlet’s soliloquy, and Frodo’s quest, and Snoopy’s favorite foods, and Jonathan Livingston Seagull’s mission, and all the American Kennel Club breeds, and Hawkeye, and how to bake chocolate chip cookies, and how to make moccasins. She’d be glad that I’m friends with my mom.

She’d be surprised that I am not a doctor or a teacher but impressed that I do something that girls don’t normally do. She’d think I’m stupid for forgetting that there’s always a new experience only a minute away. She’d wish that I remembered how to say “no” when I really don’t want to play. She’d worry that I waste too much time doing household chores. She wouldn’t understand why I think about work so much. She’d tell me to concentrate on moments instead of days. She’d wonder why I don’t spend time doing nothing. She’d ask why I don’t read more. She’d think that I act old. She’d ask if I’m happy.

And what would I say?

What would you say?

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

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Proof That I Exist

I’m impressed more by facts than by philosophy. I prefer evidence, not theory. I like things that I can prove - me, for instance. I can prove that I exist. I have a birth certificate, photographs, a copy of Alice in Wonderland that I wrote my name in when I was eight, and bank statements. If those aren’t enough, I have a fail-safe, people who will insist on identifying a lifeless body if I stop paying my bills. And my dog, Ripley, exists. I can smell her fur and touch her body and scoop up what she leaves in the back yard. There’s another fail-safe, the garbage can in the back yard that houses Ripley’s, um, leftovers. Proof, any kind of proof, even that kind of fragrant proof, makes me feel safe.

Unfortunately, some things can’t be proven. No one can prove that dogs don’t have souls. No one can prove that my brother has ever read a book. And no one can prove that pain exists. I can prove that everyone at the pharmacy knows me by my first name but not that I have pain. I can prove that I stay in bed for hours and hours but not that I have pain.

I can prove that I continually feel tired and drained but not that I have pain. I can prove that I often function with the animation of a cooked noodle but not that I have pain. People commiserate by comparing their own stories of current or past pain. Those are the people who haven’t experienced pain long enough to know that it is deeply personal. Pain can be shared but not compared. A broken arm feels different to everyone, physically and emotionally. And it’s the emotional aspect of pain that matters. Our bodies deal with physical pain mechanically, somewhat uniformly. When we drag our psyches and emotions into the fray, it gets ugly. The pain that kept you off the softball field for one season doesn’t translate to the pain that has sidelined my life. You’re in the Emergency Room facing traction and a few months of inconvenience. I’m in Room 101, facing my most dreaded fear and a life that doesn’t come close to resembling the one I loved.

Classifying the pain is just as difficult as proving it. Someone made a pain scale with smiley faces. Even worse, someone gave me the pain scale with the smiley faces. I guess it works with kids, or with people who don’t speak the same language as the doctor. But then, how many of us ever do speak the language of our doctor? I’m not suggesting that doctors aren’t people like us. I just think there are some things that go on in med school, things that we don’t want to know about, that alter their perceptions. I have found a use for the smiley faces though; I throw darts at them. If I can throw a dart and hit the bright and cheery smiley face, then that’s my level of pain. If I can throw a dart and hit the scale itself, it’s time for Advil. If I can pick up the dart but not throw it, Tramadol. If I can’t pick up the dart, Vicodin. If I can’t concentrate long enough to find the dart, Oxycontin. If I can’t find the Oxycontin, I cry.

It amazes me how quickly pain turns into depression, how quickly I become an observer rather than a participant in life. It feels like everything is painted gray, like I’m in the midst of a black and white movie, standing still while the action continues around me. My focus narrows dramatically. Time drags. I become a different person, a self-centered person who wields a knife. Ripley gets slashed with the sharp end of my emotions when I have bursts of anger or sadness. My family and friends get pummeled with the blunt hilt when I don’t answer the phone or can’t have a civilized conversation.

But it also amazes me that there’s nothing more grounding than unrelenting pain. When I have to walk more slowly, I see more flowers and dragon flies. When I lie in bed, I get to snuggle with Ripley. If I can’t take my friend Brady to the park, I get to see his delight when he licks the bowl after we make cookies. When I can’t work every day, I appreciate my job and coworkers more. I’ve even been able to add to my list of things that make me happy. Now, in addition to puppies and snowfall and children laughing, I’ve learned to value simple things like inexpensive narcotics, flexible ice packs, and drugs that don’t make me constipated. And I have a new career path. My doctor suggested finding a job that requires no lifting over ten pounds, no prolonged standing, sitting, or walking, and no repetitive twisting, bending, or kneeling. I understand Nevada has legalized a job that fits that description.

I shouldn’t complain. As it happens, it only hurts when I laugh, speak, sit, walk, stand, or lie down. And my life is full and varied. There are annoying days when I can’t remember how to adjust the volume on my car radio, ditzy days when you can hear the ocean if you stand close to me, drugged days when the squirrels out back are singing Barry Manilow songs, in key, and many successful days when I manage to stay alive despite the breathtaking incompetence that comes in the grip of chronic pain.

Prove that the pain exists? I can’t do it. But I can prove that the sun is warm on my face. I can prove that life is what you make it. And I can prove that I have friends to help me deal with it; friends who often ask, “Is there something I can get for you?” I always answer, “Yes, something tall, fit, well-educated and sensitive who gives a good massage.” After all, I don’t want to end up being the quiet neighbor who always kept to herself.

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

The Perfect Pearl Earrings

When my Ex-with-a-capital-E moved out after sixteen years, I packed all the jewelry he’d ever given me into his moving van. We’d been together since I was 19 so that left me with a few silver earrings, a Snoopy pendant, and some beaded necklaces. As he drove away with my birthday and Christmas and just-because-I-love-you keepsakes, I decided that I would buy my own jewelry from that point on. I wasn’t going to wait for a man to adorn me with trinkets. Instead, to rationalize the expense, I was going to wait for a man to disappoint me so I could adorn myself. I had no idea how quickly my jewelry box would fill up!

My first purchase was a few months after The-End-Of-Sixteen-Years. It was a big one. It had to be. Sixteen years culminates in a big disappointment. So, I splurged on a white gold necklace with a dangling pearl – in Paris. On My-First-Christmas-Without-Him, I bought a pair of white gold and diamond earrings. I threw in a silver brooch just to be sure. You only live once. Besides, I knew I was too old to count on another sixteen year relationship ending in disaster so I figured I was entitled.

My distress on My-First-Birthday-Without-Him turned into a cute gold and silver watch. In the months that followed, I allowed a lot of moments of disappointment to slip by without observing protocol because I thought they would continue long enough for me to find a fantastic ring. An unexpected epiphany propelled me forward along the grief time line. Before I knew it, I had reached the I-Wouldn’t-Take-Him-Back-If-He-Came-Crawling-On-His-Hands-And-Knees-With-A-Million-Dollars-And-A-Single-Long-Stemmed-Rose-With-The-Thorns-Still-Attached-In-His-Teeth stage. The sudden feeling of forgiveness caught me off guard but I recovered admirably. I quickly bundled any and all remaining disappointment into my fist. I traded it for a gold and ruby bracelet.

Oh, there were trickles of frustration here and there because I saw him at work every day but since it wasn’t outright disappointment, I couldn’t justify any purchases. I controlled those spells with Belgian chocolate. On My-Second-Christmas-Without-Him, he reduced my willpower to rubble by giving me a present. I was so angry at myself for crying that I shunned the cases of expensive jewelry and bought a pewter heart the size of my thumbnail. I carried it in my pocket for a long time. It was a symbolic attempt to keep my heart out of harm’s way.

My-First-Date after my Ex-with-a-capital-E made me feel very special. He awakened some things that had been dormant, some nice things. And he made me smile. I gave him my pocket heart because I didn’t need it anymore. I was ready to take a chance at being vulnerable, and being disappointed. I didn’t have to wait long. Four weeks later when he hadn’t called for a second date, I bought a really great sapphire ring. Not long after, Mr-No-Call surprised me with an invitation. I kept the ring. I’m not stupid. I’d been disappointed for only a short time but it was long enough to size a ring so I deserved to keep it. Mr-No-Call impersonated Prince Charming long enough for me to be disappointed again when my phone stopped ringing. Since it wasn’t entirely unexpected, I was able to exercise a little self-control. The charming little necklace I bought is silver. As an inside joke, I chose one with a heart much like the pocket heart I’d given him but I display this one where everyone can see it.

I’ve been asked for my phone number twice in the past month but they haven’t called. Together, those disappointments were just enough for a small gold and silver ring twisted into the symbol for infinity. Infinity is a long time - time for a lot of disappointments and quite a bit of precious metals. That can’t be a bad thing.

I figure the day will come when a man will ask me out and I will survey my fingers and wrists to see if I need any more disappointments, er, jewelry. Until that day comes, I’m keeping my eyes open for the perfect guy, and the perfect pearl earrings.

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

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French Tutor

My French tutor has a cold nose. She also has four legs and a tail. It's actually a stub with a tiny bald spot at the end but it conveys her moods as well as any conventional tail and is more knick-knack friendly.

Her name is Ripley. She's a Giant Schnauzer. “Giant” being the operative word. A point I tried to drive home to Fernando the cat on the day Ripley arrived. The cat ignored my instructions to wage psychological war on Ripley while he still had a chance to make an impression. But she was a cute little bundle of black fur with adorable brown eyes! How could he swat something smaller than him? Regret was written on his face when she doubled in size and weight after two weeks and decided to use him for a soccer ball. Apparently, hind sight is 20/20 even when you're a cat.

I had pick of the litter so I put the girls through a series of puppy tests. I wanted the dominant female. It turns out that I'm much better at testing puppies than I thought. By the time she was eight weeks old, Ripley displayed a dizzying variety of dominant behavior. She growled over toys and food, she stepped on my toes, she leaned against me - and pushed, she stood between me and any food I'd set on the coffee table. She came when she was called but never in a straight line. She even lifted her leg to declare that the trees in the yard were hers. And when she realized that only I was allowed on my bed, she quietly removed herself to the living room to sleep alone. She was not willing to play second fiddle to anyone. She was stubborn, strong willed and hard headed. My mother's wishes had come true - I had a child just like me.

It was obvious that she thought a lot about how to unsettle the pack leader and claim the throne for herself. She wasted little time chewing furniture, peeing on the rug or whining at night. She spent a lot of time refusing to be rolled onto her back, getting onto the couch and chasing the cat, my cat -in other words, using my toys without my permission. My older dog, Kevvie, who happens to be Ripley's aunt, was a plaything, too. Albeit, a plaything with teeth and a short temper around midget upstarts who repay the boss' kindness with disrespect. Sometimes I broke up dog fights but most of the time Kevvie enjoyed a sort of anonymity. Ripley wasn't concerned with Kevvie. Kevvie wasn't the boss.

When Ripley was 1½, I took a crash course in French. Two weeks in Montreal made me dangerous. Dangerous enough to put a few words together to make a sentence. Dangerous enough that anyone who spoke French didn't want to hear me butchering their language. That's where Ripley comes in.

I don't know if it's because she missed me (yeah, right) or because she was a French dog in a former life but Ripley loved to hear me trying to speak French. Her stub would wag, her ears would lift and she would smile. So, I started practicing French with Ripley. She never laughed at my pronunciation or ridiculed my grammatical errors. She'd never cared what was on my mind when I spoke English, but she was always interested in what I had to say in French. It made learning fun. For both of us.

We practiced obedience commands in French. We discussed the meaning of life. We exchanged sweet nothings - I in French, she with her stub. The breakthrough came when I found her on her back with her legs splayed and playfully asked, "Est-ce que tu fais le morte?" (“Are you making the death?”). She grinned a big dog grin and wagged her stub so hard it could have whipped eggs for a soufflé. I took advantage of her mood to rub her belly, something she rarely tolerated. A few minutes later, when she'd regained her composure (and her attitude), I said, "I liked you better when you were dead." And added, “Why don't you ‘fais le morte’?" I was shocked when she instantly fell to the floor and rolled onto her back, splaying her legs and wagging furiously! She'd taught herself a trick and, in the meantime, allowed herself to be subservient to me without compromising her ethics. It was the beginning of a better relationship - and of household harmony.

My French has improved and so has Ripley’s temperament. We occasionally have spats over territory and household rules but I think she's just trying to hang onto her childhood, sa enfance. We hadn’t realized that we were speaking different languages until we learned a new one together. It made us closer. It's amazing what adjusting the lines of communication can do!

The discovery of Ripley’s true self, her inner tutor, has resulted in real learning experiences. Practical French and practical relationships. Too bad it’s costing me a fortune in baguettes and Roquefort! I hope she doesn’t learn to like wine.

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

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A Clean House

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I took a test on the Internet that calculated my risk factors and estimated my mortality. According to TheSpark.com, I will die on March 22, 2028, thirty days before my 64th birthday. Sixty-four seems a little young. My Mom will be sixty-four this year and she’s still going strong. Her eyesight isn’t what it used to be but I can handle fading vision. I’d rather be blind at sixty-four than dead.

Facing the bleak reality of an almost imminent death, I tried to plan my remaining twenty-four years. Should I begin connecting with all the people I hurt or disappointed? Should I confront all the people who hurt or disappointed me? Should I climb Mount Everest? Or maybe just try to get fit enough to climb Mount Everest? There are so many things to do, and so little time to do them. There are so many goals, so many dreams. The stress from trying to decide how to best use my time almost killed me, twenty-four years and one week prematurely.

My mementos and photos all told me the same thing, “Been there, done that.” Yet, I knew there was something unfinished, some task I was meant to do before I die, some scared mission. It came to me as I knelt on my kitchen floor. I wasn’t praying; I was cleaning the Chai syrup that Zoloft knocked off the counter so she and Ripley could finger paint. Amidst the mayhem of dog and cat footprints, I had a vision. I saw my mission clearly.

Just once, in my lifetime, in my meager 64 years, I wanted a clean house.

Oh, I’ve had a regular, everyday clean house; the kind of clean house that results from careful lighting, clever disguising, and maniacal hiding. I’ve had the kind of clean house that requires a gallon of Fabreze or a dozen scented candles placed as strategically as a S.W.A.T team. This time I wanted a house that would meet Nurse Ratched’s standards. I just had no idea how to get there.

My childhood room was a “disaster area”. Cleaning it meant shoveling everything under the bed. The sofa bed I bought for my first apartment didn’t have any space under it. Physics prevented me from folding it up with too much junk inside so I piled things in the closets. When all my dishes were dirty, I’d clean the bathtub so I could do the dishes in there. I learned some housekeeping basics in my late twenties. Now, to my mother’s surprise, I fold and hang my clothes, wash the dishes in the sink, make my bed, and put my toys away. Still, the house is never completely clean. How could it be? A glass sits in the sink. The clean laundry is in the dryer. The dog tracked mud on the floor. Life goes on.

But life doesn’t go on forever. After all, mine will stop on March 22, 2028. So, on Sunday, I hit the “pause” button. Life inside my house stopped. I took Ripley to the kennel. Zoloft saw the vacuum and disappeared. I bought every cleaning agent known to mankind, donned a sweat suit, rolled up my sleeves, and went to work. I opened the windows and welcomed the crisp winter air. I moved furniture and polished floors with lemony-fresh oil. I rolled the refrigerator away from the wall and poured straight bleach on whatever that stuff on the floor was. I scrubbed until Mr. Clean gave me a thumbs up, just like in the commercial. The vacuum and I became one. It was a magic time.

By 9pm, I was standing in my kitchen wearing nothing but a smile. Every article of clothing was clean and put away. All the garbage pails were clad in virgin trash bags. The recycling boxes were empty. My curtains were pristine. My bathrooms were radiant. There were no blown-out light bulbs, no disorganized closets, and no expired food in the fridge. My windows and mirrors were sparkling. Not a speck of cat litter was soiled. There were no unfinished Solitaire games on my desktop. My answering machine, and my cell phone voice mail, were empty. My house was clean. It was a magic moment.

But then I started to shiver. I realized that the fresh winter breeze was not good for my bare skin. I realized that the normal soft buffer of pet hair was no longer between my feet and the cold tile. I realized that all the new light bulbs made it possible for my unlucky neighbors to see my naked body through my open windows. I ran to my bedroom, hitting light switches as I went, and snuggled into my bed. I fell asleep quickly, eager to wake in the morning to a perfect house.

Instead, I woke to a smelly litter box, an overturned houseplant, and cat hair on the sofa.

But, on March 21, 2028, I will be able to look in the mirror and smile, knowing that, many years earlier, I had a clean house.

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

Ein Weihnachtsgeschenk: Bekenntnisse einer Polizistin

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Liebe Mitbürger, Nachbarn, Freunde und Familie, mein Name ist Jill und ich bin Polizistin.

Das bedeutet, dass die Höhen wie auch die Tiefen meines Privatlebens oft von meinem Beruf mit beeinflusst werden.

Ich bedauere diese Vermischung, verwechsle jedoch mein Dasein selbst oft genug mit meinem Job, genauso wie ihr es auch tut.

Der Stempel „Polizist“ erzeugt ein falsches Bild davon, wer ich wirklich bin. Manchmal fühle ich mich, als schwebte ich zwischen zwei Welten. Meine Arbeit besteht nicht nur daraus, Freund und Helfer zu sein. Sie stellt den Puffer zwischen der Welt dar, wie Du sie kennst und der Welt, wie sie wirklich ist.

Mein Beruf ist nicht wie im Fernsehen. Die aufregenden Momente sind unregelmäßiger und viel plastischer. Es ist keinesfalls ein tolles Gefühl, eine Waffe auf jemanden zu richten. Blutlachen haben einen ekelerregenden metallischen Geruch und dampfen leicht, wenn die Temperaturen niedrig genug sind.

Herzlungenwiederbelebung ist kein Wunder aus der Tüte, und die Rippen einer alten Frau brechen zu hören während ich verzweifelt versuche, ihr Herz am Schlagen zu halten ist überhaupt nicht lustig.

Deine Neugier bezüglich meiner Arbeit schmeichelt mir nicht und ich führe auch kein Buch darüber, was am erschreckendsten, am seltsamsten, am blutigsten oder auch nur am lustigsten war.

Ich erzähle Dir nicht viel über meinen Arbeitstag weil ich die Bilder, die mich verfolgen, nicht mit Dir teilen möchte.

Aber ich möchte ein paar Bekenntnisse machen.

Ja, manchmal ist meine Anlage zu laut aufgedreht. Andrea Bocellis Stimme macht es mir einfach leichter, den toten Körper eines jungen Mannes zu vergessen, der alleine in einem angemieteten Raum starb, weil seine Eltern fürchteten, durch sein AIDS stigmatisiert zu werden.

Beethovens Neunte löscht die Erinnerung an die Krankenschwestern aus, die unter Tränen Schicht um Schicht den Dreck und Schleim von der Haut eines vernachlässigten Zweijährigen wuschen.

Der peitschende Rhythmus der Rolling Stones bestätigt mir, dass es nur pure Ignoranz gewesen sein kann, die die junge Mutter dazu brachte, Blut zu saugen als sie ihr kleines Kind in die Wange biss um ihm beizubringen, andere nicht zu beißen.

Manchmal gebe ich ein schlechtes Vorbild ab. Ich habe die Geschwindigkeitsbegrenzung überschritten, weil ich Probleme hatte, vom Adrenalinschub runterzukommen, der mir durch die Adern schoss als ich feststellte, dass der Mann, dem ich während einer Drogenrazzia Handschellen anlegte, auf einer geladenen Pistole Kaliber 9mm x 19 saß.

Manchmal wirke ich unhöflich. Ich war abgelenkt und habe vergessen zu lächeln als Du mich im Laden begrüßt hast weil ich gerade an das ängstlich geflüsterte Geständnis eines Teenies denken musste, der seinen ertrinkenden Bruder von sich gestoßen hatte, um selbst überleben zu können.

Manchmal bin ich nicht so mitfühlend, wie Du es gerne hättest. Ich zerbreche mir nicht den Kopf darüber, dass Deine fünfzehnjährige Tochter mir einem Achtzehnjährigen ausgeht, weil ich gerade versucht habe, die Eltern eines jungen Mannes zu trösten, der sich selbst die Kehle aufgeschlitzt hat, während sie im Nebenzimmer schliefen.

Ich war am Telefon kurz angebunden, weil es mich gestört hat, die Last der Entscheidung zwischen zwei Menschenleben tragen zu müssen während ich auf einen bewaffneten Mann zielte der nicht aufhörte zu betteln, ich möge ihn doch bitte erschießen.

Ich lache, wenn ich sehe wie Du vor dem Chaos im Zimmer deines halbwüchsigen Kindes zurückschreckst, weil ich den Widerwillen kenne, der mich überkommt, wenn ich fühle wie das Blut eines Heroinsüchtigen langsam an meinem Arm in Richtung einer offenen Schnittwunde läuft.

Ich war still als Du über Deine überbehütende Mutter gejammert hast, weil ich Dir wirklich gerne davon erzählt hätte, wie ich heute mit einer Schulfreundin gesprochen habe. Ich hatte ihre Mutter zusammengesackt hinter dem Lenkrad ihres Autos in einer luftdicht verschlossenen Garage gefunden. Sie hatte ihre besten Kleider angezogen, bevor sie die Autoscheiben runtergekurbelt und den Motor angelassen hatte.

Andererseits scheine ich das Blut auf meiner Uniform gar nicht wahrzunehmen, genauso wie die Schimpfwörter, mit denen ich bedacht werde oder auch die hasserfüllten Leitartikel. Das liegt daran, dass ich mich nur zu gut an das erinnere, was ich in meinem Beruf gelernt habe.

Ich habe zum Beispiel gelernt, mir keine allzu großen Gedanken über Kleinigkeiten zu machen. Traubensaft auf dem hellbraunen Sofa und ein Welpenhäufchen auf dem Orientteppich bereiten mir kein Kopfzerbrechen weil ich weiß, wie sich arterielles Blut und verwesende Leichen auf die Inneneinrichtung auswirken können.

Ich habe gelernt, wann ich die Welt Welt sein lassen und mir aus Rücksicht auf mein geistiges Wohl eine Auszeit nehmen muss.

Ich habe den vierten Geburtstag Deiner Tochter sausen gelassen, weil ich über die sechs Kinder unter zehn Jahren nachdenken musste, deren Mutter sie unbeaufsichtigt zu Hause gelassen hatte, um mit einer Freundin auszugehen.

Als die Dreijährige dem Hund Milch aus ihrem Cornflakes-Schüsselchen anbieten wollte, griff der sie an und zerfleischte ihr den Kopf, so dass der Sandkasten blutgetränkt war. Die Geschwister des kleinen Mädchens mussten dem Hund den Kopf aus den Fängen reißen – zweimal!

Ich habe gelernt, dass ich von jedem etwas lernen kann.

Zwei Mütter in einem Fürsorgestreit lehrten mich, niemanden nur nach seinem Äußeren zu beurteilen.

Die minderjährige Mutter, die von Sozialleistungen lebte schaffte es, nicht vor ihrem verängstigten Kind zu weinen, während die gut angezogene Mutter aus der sozialen Oberschicht ein regelrechtes Tauziehen veranstaltete, bevor sie mit dem schreienden Kind auf dem Arm mitten in den fließenden Verkehr lief.

Ich habe gelernt, dass nichts, was von Herzen gegeben wurde, wirklich verloren ist. Eine Umarmung, ein Lächeln, ein paar mutmachende Worte oder auch nur ein aufmerksames Zuhören kann eine verletzte oder verzweifelte Person wieder zurück in die Realität bringen und hilft mir selbst, mich wieder zu fokussieren.

Und ich habe gelernt, nicht aufzugeben. Nie.

Dieser Sekundenbruchteil des Schreckens wenn ich glaube, dass ich schlussendlich doch auf denjenigen gestoßen bin, der jung und stark genug ist, mich zu überwältigen, hat mir gezeigt, dass es für mich nur eine Beschränkung gibt: meine eigene Sterblichkeit.

Eine Woche im Mai wurde als „Police Memorial Week“ festgelegt, eine Zeit, während der man der Polizisten gedenkt, die es nach Schichtende nicht mehr nach Hause geschafft haben.

Aber worauf warten? Nimm Dir einen Moment Zeit, einem Polizisten zu sagen, dass Du seine Arbeit wertschätzt.

Lächle und sage freundlich „Hallo“, wenn er sich mal einen Kaffee holt. Beiß Dir auf die Zunge, wenn Du im Restaurant eine Geschichte über die „böse Polizei“ erzählen willst.

Noch besser wäre es, wenn Du eine Geschichte über eine gute Erfahrung mit der Polizei reden würdest. Die Familie am Nachbartisch könnte eine Polizistenfamilie sein.

Nichts, das von Herzen gegeben wurde, ist wirklich verloren. Es wird in den Herzen derer aufbewahrt, die es empfangen haben. Es ist Weihnachten. Gib von Herzen. Gib den Polizisten ein bisschen was zurück dafür, dass sie ihr Leben tagtäglich für alle riskieren.

Jill Wragg ist pensionierte Polizistin.
Sie kann erreicht werden unter JKWragg@yahoo.com

Ins Deutsche von Benjamin Lehnert.




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Mental Holiday

Perseverance Path in Dennis is about 50 yards long, and it’s a dead end – how’s that for perseverance? I think it’s a sign of the times. Perseverance in the 1950’s was walking a mile to the store in the middle of summer to buy an ice cream cone. In the 60’s, it was going into the kitchen to answer the one phone in the house. In the 70’s, it was getting up to turn the dial on your black and white television. In the 80’s, it was waiting until 5pm to hear the day’s news. In the 90’s, it was not being able to retrieve your phone messages from your answering machine until you got home from work. Now, in the 21st century, perseverance is waiting with exasperation while your Nextel “bleeps” before you can speak to your next-door neighbor while you are both home.

I gave my mother a Nextel when her clunky old cell phone finally expired. A few minutes later, I “bleeped” my brother to warn him that Ma had the ability to contact him at any given moment. There was silence for about 25 seconds before he responded, “You’re grounded.” That’s when I realized that we’ve come too far. Do we really need to be in touch with everyone we know every second of the day? Doesn’t absence make the heart grow fonder? We’ve become addicted to instant gratification.

My friend’s seven year old complained that the ride from Yarmouth to Orleans took too long. He said, “I hate minutes. I like seconds better.” Do you agree? Does instant coffee take too long? When was the last time you counted out cash instead of sliding a debit or credit card through a machine? When was the last time you were bored? Do you sit down to eat? Are all five of your televisions always on? Is everyone in your household taking medication? That’s always a good sign. I knew I was cooked when the vet prescribed Valium for my dog.

With four phone numbers, five email addresses and a doorbell, I’m fairly easy to contact. And people contact me, over and over, hour after hour, day after day. I decided I needed a break from the world. I wanted to spend a day with myself, out of reach, incognito, disguised by a lack of technology. So I conducted an experiment. I spent two hours just sitting still so my kitten could sleep on my lap. I did nothing while she slept. My coffee got cold. My legs fell asleep. Dust settled on the mantle. I could hear snow melting off the roof. My cell phone languished on the kitchen table. I didn’t drop dead when people dialed my number and no one answered. After the kitten woke up, I walked out of the house without looking at the caller ID and drove to the beach for the sunset.

I didn’t bend the speed limit so I could screech to a halt at the end of the boardwalk just as the sun dipped below the horizon. I allowed enough time to park legally. I strolled out over the marsh and sat comfortably watching day turn to evening. I remained still until the shards of sunlight faded to gray. I continued to enjoy the view after I turned back toward my car. I didn’t reach for my keys until I used every opportunity to inhale the crisp ocean air. I felt relaxed. It only took thirty minutes and it was much cheaper than flying to Paris. It was a mental holiday, a break from the 21st century, a fast.

Some people fast one day each week to cleanse their bodies. I recommend giving up your cell phone for one day each week to cleanse your mind. Being out of touch can be a good thing. We don’t have to be busy to get things accomplished. Sitting quietly by yourself is doing something, accomplishing something. Our time, and our thoughts, are some the few things that we truly own. We can decide how to use them. Two minutes spent screaming at the driver in front of you or twenty minutes spent harassing your spouse for last week’s infraction can set the tone for your day. Two minutes spent playing with a puppy or twenty minutes spent making cookies with a child can change your day, your whole week. It’s even more relaxing if you can send the puppy and the child home to their real families when you’re finished.

Don’t just do something, stand there. Or, if you’re the type who must do something, do something else. Ignoring your phone is doing something. Not checking your email is doing something. Refusing to answer the door is doing something.

Taking a mental holiday is doing something.

Just don’t use Holiday Lane in Yarmouth. It’s a dead end, too.

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

Mom's Cell Phone

Note – no mom’s feelings were hurt in the writing of this essay . . .

Employees at a Scotland zoo began receiving prank calls one July afternoon. It wasn’t a child asking if they had Prince Albert in a can or if their refrigerator was running. It wasn’t a telemarketer or one of those recorded septic tank sales pitches. It was Chippy, a chimp who had quietly stolen a zookeeper’s cell phone and figured out how to dial the phone’s stored numbers. Chippy eventually gave himself away by shrieking into the phone, probably overcome by a fit of laughter when he realized that he could run the zoo from his cage with a cell phone. And he did this without a human sized brain.

My dogs can use a phone, too. I left them alone while I ran errands. They wanted to call out – maybe for pizza – but they couldn't reach the pre-programmed wall phone so they took the cordless phone off the coffee table. When they had trouble remembering the new 10 digit dialing procedure, they gave up and just dialed 911. Lacking a human sized brain, and hands, they used their teeth. Not bad for a bunch of furballs.

Even my little brother can use a phone. The size of his brain is debatable, and I don’t know whether he prefers to use his hands or his teeth but he manages.

My mother is a different story. For two years, she’s been complaining that her cell phone won’t work unless it’s plugged into the cigarette lighter socket. Since the phone is old, I assumed she’d fried the battery. I advised her to get another battery and left it at that. I should have known better. She is always complaining about modern devices. Her answering machine committed suicide. Her cordless phone ran away from home. Her computer began chewing its own leg off to get free of her house. I should have been suspicious about the cell phone story but she’s my Mom so I accepted her explanation. Until yesterday.

Yesterday, in the car, I listened as my mother and grandmother discussed purchasing cordless phones. My mother turned to me, “Do you have to plug a cordless phone base into a phone jack?” I wanted to answer, “Does a bear eat in the woods?” or, even more appropriate, “Is the telephone code for Antarctica 6-7-2?” but I was too stunned to form the words.

I looked at her cell phone, cradled in its dash mounted holster, stand-by light flashing slowly, secure with its umbilical cord plugged into the cigarette lighter. I looked at my mother, cradled in her seatbelt, steadily driving 5 mph below the speed limit, securely fastened to the car with both hands on the wheel. I looked back at the cell phone. Then at my mother. The cell phone. My mother. The cell phone. I whirled around expecting to see Rod Serling or Alfred Hitchcock in the back seat. My mother and her cell phone were living parallel lives.

I grabbed the phone and unplugged it. The phone gave a last gasp as its light went out. Its link to the reassuring world of electricity had been severed. My mother also gasped. Her link to the reassuring world of emergency road service had been severed. She and the phone were barely a mile from home but they were suspended in limbo. I held the phone’s cord in my hand, ready to plug it in if my mother showed signs of respiratory distress. She nervously glanced sideways as she drove. When she finally inhaled, I dropped the cord. I flipped open the phone and began phone CPR. Taking a wild chance, I pressed the power button. With a whir and a beep, the phone came to life. I called its number from my cell phone and it rang, its spirit running across a green pasture screaming, “I’m free! I’m free!” I looked at my mother. Then at the cell phone. Then back at my mother. I explained the importance of the power button. Then I told her about Chippy and offered to hire him as a tutor.

My Mom loves me. She didn’t make me walk the rest of the way home.

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

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My Adventures in "Geek-ing"

Custom Icon and Label for Thumb Drive / External Hard Drive

I'd been messing around with a way to mark my thumb drive so it will (maybe) be returned if I lose it. Chances are, I won't actually "lose" it; I will leave it at the house of a friend or at work. But I want to get it back - ASAP - without having to call all over the universe to find it.

Obviously, marking its exterior with my mobile number is a good move, too but I want a nagging reminder in the face of anyone who finds it and plugs it in.

Of course my drive is encrypted so I don't need to worry about data falling into the wrong hands. And everything is backed up but I don't want to have to buy and rebuild a new thumb drive.

I Googled it and found a few tips:

I found a tip about an AutoSplash screen that was too complex for me. And, it seemed a bit over the top.

I also found info on creating a launch.bat file to run a notepad text file that offered a reward for the safe return of my thumb drive. That looked pretty good but would probably be ignored by "normal" computer users who stumble across a strange thumb drive and stick it into their USB port.

But there was nothing about just simply labeling a drive. So I just figured it out for myself.

I decided to just label my drive (rather than "removable disk" or whatever your default might be) and add an eye catching custom icon to it.

About a week after I submitted the
tip to Lifehacker.com,
I Googled it again.
Now there are a dozen sites with MY tip on them!
I guess that means I can call myself a geek now.

Here's what I did:

I backed-up, and then edited my existing autorun.inf file.

(obviously, you can create one quickly in Notepad if you don't already have one on your drive - for those as simple as I, open Notepad, enter the text

[autorun]

and save it to the root directory - the "main" area of your drive, not in a folder- as

autorun.inf

I chose a big yellow smiley face for my icon but any brightly colored / unusual icon will be easily noticed.

I copied the icon to the root directory of my thumb drive and renamed it myicon.ico.

Then I opened my autorun.inf file and added this text

icon = .\myicon.ico
label=My Name (mobile xxx-xxx-xxxx)

(of course, you would substitute your name and your mobile number for the above text - you can also leave off your name and just call the drive what it is, ie: "1 gb thumb drive")

So, the entire text within your autorun.inf file will be:

[autorun]
icon = .\myicon.ico
label=My Name (mobile xxx-xxx-xxxx)

I saved the file and marked it "read only" and hid it ( just as an added sense of security - a lot of people have not learned how to tweak their "show hidden folders" settings and, thus, will not be tempted to delete or edit the file) - but that step isn't necessary.

Once I unplugged and re-inserted my thumb drive, it looked like this:

And that is what anyone who finds and plugs in your thumb drive will see.

With any luck, they'll pick up their phone and let you know where your precious drive is.

I did the same thing to my external hard drive...

Then, I decided to clean up the list I see when I want to access my hard drive.

I created a custom icon in Paint by opening a "new" file that was just a plain white box. I saved it as a .jpg file, then converted that to an .ico file.

I right clicked on the folders on the hard drive that I never access, and changed their icons to the custom white icon I'd made.

I also changed the icons on the folders I use frequently to brightly colored icons I can spot easily.

When I was done, my hard drive looked like this:

Now it's a lot easier to navigate my hard drive, and I'm less likely to click on the wrong plain yellow folder.

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Racial Profiling

In June 1999, President Clinton issued an executive memorandum requiring all federal law enforcement agencies to collect information on race, ethnicity, and gender of every person who was subjected to a search. He called it “Fairness in Law Enforcement: Interior Collection of Data”.

It was drafted in response to the much debated police tactic which is now called “racial profiling”. “Profiling” began when police started using extensive resources to collect data - age, gender, life style (not sexual), psychological, and, yes, racial - which would give them a “profile” of a person most likely to commit certain crimes.

For decades, “profiling” has helped police agencies identify and arrest serial killers, prolific burglars, terrorists, and the like. In recent times, the positive aspects of “profiling” have been overlooked. One characteristic of the “profile” is being questioned - race. The ACLU has set up a toll free number for reporting incidents of “DWB” - Driving While Black. They chose the digits “1-877-6-PROFILE”. Within a year, Connecticut, Kansas, North Carolina and Washington instituted laws requiring police to record racial data on the people they encounter. Missouri will soon follow suit.

I’m confused about this clamor for police officers to document the nature of every call and the race of the people encountered. I’m told that it’s an attempt to prevent racial profiling. Isn’t it racial profiling when officers make concentrated efforts to note the race of everyone they encounter?

When I write a traffic ticket, there is a box that asks for race. I leave it blank. Who am I to determine the race of a person just by looking? Isn’t that racial profiling? I could be providing false information that will label that person for life. I also left it blank on my census form. When the census taker visited my home, he took it upon himself to check off “white”. According to my research, my paternal ancestors had a substantial amount of land and slaves. Isn’t it possible that I have some “black” blood? My maternal family descends from the settlers who arrived on the Mayflower yet some of my cousins have black skin. Are they black or white? Am I? Who decides?

If skin tone alone is how we will determine a person’s race, will cops be equipped with tint meters that will tell us whether the color of a person’s skin will be legally categorized as “white” or “black”? Perhaps there will be a fine tuning device that will tell us whether the “black” person is African American, Puerto Rican, Native American, or Cape Verdean. Perhaps it will grade a “white” person according to pigmentation. Any rating below 50% "white" could be classified as “mixed race”. And what about Asians? Is there a third, or fourth (or fifth) color we can add to the statistics?

And if lineage will be the determining factor, how will we obtain that information? “Excuse me sir, I need to know the nationality of three generations on both sides of your family tree so I can fill out this form.” And what do we do if a man with pale white skin identifies himself as black because his father or grandmother was black? Arrest him for determining his own race? And will we judge those of mixed ethnicity by their paternal or maternal heritage? Which is more important?

Perhaps DNA will be the determining factor and every American citizen will be required by federal law to carry a card documenting the government’s official classification of his race. Perhaps the magnetic strips on our new driving licenses will include that information. Is the day far off when we will be required to “swipe” the licenses at every store and restaurant to compile more statistics.

The bottom line? Yes, there are some police officers who judge people by the color of their skin. There are also shop keepers who follow young customers around their stores, and bankers who deny loan applications because a person doesn’t speak perfect English, and teachers who don’t spend as much time encouraging girls to go to college, and reporters who insist on adding “black” or “hispanic” or “female” to their descriptions so often that we all know the absence of those adjectives means the person was a white male.

Still, racial statistics are a step backward. Suppose we begin to require officers to record the race/color of every person encountered. How soon before we begin to evaluate the officer’s performance based on those statistics? How soon before officers begin to fear being fired because they have dealt with more “whites” than “blacks”, with more “blacks” than “mixed race”. At some point, officers will begin to practice selective law enforcement in order to maintain acceptable statistics. Then, when the month of December is coming to a close and an officer realizes s/he has stopped 20 white motorists and only 5 black, s/he will turn the other way when a white motorist speeds by. Perhaps that motorist will travel a few miles further and run straight into a crowded bus stop.

Why hasn’t anyone directed an assault at the other aspects of profiling? No one is bashing “profiling” by age, gender, life style, or psychological background. Perhaps it’s time we did.

Perhaps my insurance will go down when insurance companies are prohibited from asking the age of drivers, and classifying the younger ones as an insurance risk.

Perhaps your daughter will come home with straight A’s in science after the media is prohibited from publishing statistics that say boys are better in math and science.

Perhaps my cousin who enjoys sampling many different jobs instead of remaining in one career will not be denied a mortgage application when banks are prohibited from referring to statistics that show she’s a bad investment.

Perhaps that boy down the street who finds pleasure in dismembering small pets will achieve his dream of attending medical school, or becoming a police officer. No, wait, perhaps not.

Perhaps “profiling” has its advantages after all.

It is right for the public to keep abreast of the activities of the police but it is wrong to judge us all according to the behavior of a few. The few bad seeds will be weeded out. The rest of us are here for you 24 hours a day, on weekends and holidays, and when our kids are sick. We don’t care what race you are, any more than you care whether the officer giving mouth to mouth to your child is black or white.

Do not believe your television. Portrayals of cops are about as accurate as General Hospital’s portrayal of doctors. How many of us believe that all doctors are adulterous drug addicts involved in a murder cover up?

Cops are not inherently racist, nor do we become racist after graduating from the police academy. We try very hard to judge people as individuals, even when they are spewing racial or sexist slurs at us. And we are all trained to protect your civil rights. I invite every person who feels differently to attend a citizen police academy or to accompany a police officer on patrol.

It’s very easy to play “breakfast-nook-quarterback” while others are actually out on the street facing life or death situations while you sleep. My mother always reminded me to “look before I leap”.

I offer those words of wisdom to those clamoring for racial statistics.

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

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Who Needs Words?

I saw Brady change from a baby into a little boy. If I’d blinked, I would have missed it. It happened when he discovered his shadow. One moment, he was blissfully unaware of the world. The next, he was watching the boy on the wall imitate his every move. It made me feel old. I wanted to discover something that wonderful, something that fascinating and new. I wanted to be astounded and enthralled. Then I realized that my opportunity to feel those things was right in front of me, offering his shadow a toy to play with.

Brady’s growth has always amazed me but never so much as in the past two months. He was just simply going through predictable stages of development. Now he’s experiencing milestones of perception. And it’s more than just noticing the stars in the sky, or recognizing colors. He’s doing calculus, or at least its equivalent. He’s making connections. He’s pulling together random impressions and images scattered in his brain. He’s forming concepts. He’s thinking.

But thinking brings understanding and a realization of limitations. Before Christmas, Brady started hitting himself on the head and making angry faces. He was frustrated by his failure to communicate verbally. He never hears baby talk so his comprehension of complex sentences far surpasses his ability to participate in the discussions. He’s had a solid grasp of the “if…then” concept for some time but when confronted by “if you eat some broccoli, then you can have dessert,” he could voice his displeasure only by whining. So, his mom started teaching him sign language. The result was spectacular. Last night at dinner, I told him, “If you eat some chicken, then you can have some M&Ms”. Instead of whining, he bargained. He signed that he would eat more cheese and a French fry in exchange for the M&Ms. We had a deal. If he’s negotiating like this at 20 months, he’ll be a heck of a lawyer when he’s five.

Sign language is an excellent form of communication. It even works for exchanging information that should be classified. Brady has learned signs that are not part of the American Sign Language repertoire, signs that go with being a boy. His Mom taught him to cover his mouth after he belches. Her friend taught him to wave his hand in front of his nose after he passes gas. Both signs are executed with a grandiose air and are accompanied by a devilish grin. He’s even invented a sign – a thumb hooked backwards - for “there’s something in my diaper that you might like to see.”

He picks up new signs very quickly but his vocal range plugs along at a normal rate. He learned words for the things he needed first, “Mama” and “bottle” were favorites. Now that he’s thinking, he’s adding words that have meaning. “Stop” and “Go” are fun. There’s not much a toddler likes more than control. Last week, I spent thirty minutes pushing a grocery cart from the store’s entrance to the milk aisle because I was following his instructions. “No” is another good one. Repeating the word helps achieve the desired goal, as in “No, no, no, no, no”. “Up” and “Down” get him places that he can’t go on his own.

But he still prefers to use a more primitive form of communication, sound effects. When I put him to bed at night, we discuss our day’s activities. I narrate while he improvises. A typical day involves playing with the cat (meow) before driving to the store (vroom vroom) with Ripley in the back seat (woof woof). Sometimes we pass a police car or fire engine (imitates a siren). Then we eat dinner (chomping noises) and watch Finding Nemo (fish face with fish-breathing-air noises).

I know that all those squeaks and grunts and giggles are paving the way for more words and whole sentences. Soon enough, we won’t be able to shut him up. I can’t wait to hear what he’s thinking, and how he’s thinking. I can’t wait to discover the world again through his eyes.

In the meantime, I’ll settle for the visual communication. It’s a simple form that’s rarely misunderstood. When his Mom tells him she loves him, he answers by signing, “I love you” and then spreading his arms all the way out to the sides for “this much”.

So who needs words?

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

Smitten

I took a guy with me when I met my friend Cheryl for dinner. The next day, she announced that it’s obvious I’m smitten. She’s right. In my wildest dreams, I would not have wanted someone like Brady in my life. He’s not my type. He’s short. He’s loud. He has the attention span of a gnat. He’s uneducated, naïve, and inconsiderate. His trendy clothes are ill fitting. But he is cute, and charming enough for me to seek out his company again and again.

Okay, this is what happened:

Last year, my roommate had a baby. I’d never lived in the same house as a baby so I was nervous. When Brady came home from the hospital, he was a slug with the personality of a wet tissue and the daily routine of a shark. He was an eating and excreting machine. And he made noise that could shatter glass. Luckily, after years of working in kennels, I was immune to loud, continuous noises. I thought I was immune to babies, too.

All of my friends adore babies. They love the way babies smell. They say that babies are fun. Yeah, fun as a headache. I prefer the quiet life. I could have been named the patron saint of a baby free lifestyle, but I lost to a single man in his late 30’s . Still, there was something about him that began to grow on me. When he and his Mom moved out, I became his nanny.

It wasn’t pretty.

I was intimidated by this little person and frustrated by my lack of knowledge. My expertise was with dogs. I often quipped that I’d be better off with a puppy, no, a whole litter of puppies, than with one baby. We struggled through each day without me accidentally killing him. I used to stand my dolls on their heads to dress them. This wasn’t much different. There were incidents of leaky diapers that I hadn’t installed properly, exploding bottles of formula, shampoo in his eyes, and pureed squash in his nose. The first time we went out in public, I didn’t know to bring a diaper bag, or not to feed him chocolate cake.

Almost overnight, Brady evolved from a slug to a rock-eater, the rarely named stage between a rug-rat and a drape-climber that involves crawling around in search of tiny things to eat off the floor. Things not visible to the adult eye. Things like pieces of gravel, single strands of dog hair, and grains of salt. I spent a lot of time following him around the house and systematically removing foreign objects from between his clenched jaws.

He began wreaking havoc on my house, laughing out loud the whole time. And he did it on all fours. He drooled, raided the dog dish, played with old dog toys, chewed my shoes, and smeared my sliding glass door with nose prints. That’s when it hit me. There’s not much difference between an eight-month-old baby and a dog! Hey, maybe I can do this!

The more he acted like a dog, the more enamored I became. Luckily, he doesn’t mind being treated like a dog. He enjoys chasing balls and shredding magazines. I enjoy having an opportunity to hone my dog training skills. In no time, I convinced him that the diaper pail was not a toy box. I taught him not to climb onto the open dishwasher door to lick the dishes. And I help him practice the tricks he’s learned, like raising his arms when we say “touchdown!”, throwing kisses, clapping his hands, and waving bye-bye. I was unsuccessful at deterring his fascination with what’s “down there” but, after all, he is a boy.

Now we’ve become a team. He calls me “eh” and I give him Indian names like “Little Ray of Sunshine”, “Dances with Rattle” and “Screams at Bedtime”. He doesn’t tell anyone when I make mistakes and I let him be a boy. I carry him in a backpack so he doesn’t have to ride in those sissy grocery cart seats and I give him a straw instead of a bottle or a sippy cup when we’re in public. We do laundry together. He stands beside me at the dryer, pulling out the wet clothes as I put them in. We peruse the Toys R Us catalog together. Instead of stressing about getting him to sleep, I put him down for naps and watch as he flops around like he’s trying out for the role of a letter on Sesame Street.

I’ve also started getting into the baby culture. My guest room is a nursery. The deck is a playpen. I actually own a high chair. I have a “plug” (pacifier) hanging from my rear view mirror. I don’t mind that my silver demitasse spoons double as drumsticks. And I change his diapers quickly and efficiently, even when he interferes by playing with his, er, bits and pieces. I even embroidered a t-shirt for him with the words, “Party. My Crib. 3am. BYOB”.

So, am I smitten? I’ve stopped denying that he’s mine when people compliment him, and his smile lights up my world.

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

Welcoming Bubba

Last spring, my brother let me borrow his cordless drill. There’s a saying about giving a child a hammer and the whole world becomes a nail. If you give a woman a cordless drill, the whole world becomes an interior decorating project. I was drunk on drilling. I put up shelves, fixed wobbly drawers, and made Christmas ornaments out of European coins. I drilled and drilled and drilled. My coup d’etat, right before I joined Drillers Anonymous, involved desecrating my Scrabble game. I fastened a game piece tile holder to the walls outside each of the bedrooms. Now I can spell out the name of each room’s occupant with Scrabble tiles. It’s the adult version of those magnetic letters that kids stick to the refrigerator. When my brother saw me frantically digging through the tiles for the ever elusive “J”, he confiscated the drill.

I was thrilled with my ingenuity but I knew I’d have few opportunities to play with my new art. The names on the doors weren’t likely to change. From the moment my dogs met her dog, my roommate Mel was a permanent fixture – even after she announced that she was pregnant with a boy.

I was almost as excited as she. I grilled her about baby names so I could change the Scrabble tiles. She systematically rejected every male and transgender name known to mankind. In desperation, I announced that I would call the child Bubba until she settled on a name. I hurried to change the tiles on her door to read “Mel & Bubba”. We were expecting a baby.

I had no idea how my life would change. My training in emergency childbirth – and as a woman – never prepared me for the impact of a pregnancy in my home. Now I understand the stories my male colleagues shared about their wives. Now I know what it’s like to live with a pregnant woman.

I’ve always subscribed to the sentiment that if I wanted to hear the pitter patter of little feet, I’d put shoes on my cat. Now I’m engrossed in daily viewings of “Baby Story” and “Maternity Ward” on television. I stumble over boxes of diminutive clothing that friends have donated to the cause. I wake up in the middle of the night seeing visions of nursery themes on the wall. I buy baby name books from China and Bolivia, and quiz total strangers about possible names. I’m on a never-ending hunt for the perfect maternity gift. I can’t pass a store without checking its freezer for Ben and Jerry’s “Dilbert” ice cream. I hide the eggs in the refrigerator and avoid words like “poached”, “scrambled” and “omelet”. I tiptoe around the mood swings that leave her sobbing hysterically about the suffering of children in World War II. I try to be empathic when she complains that she can’t see her feet. I laugh when she stubs her belly on the edge of the counter or leaves the house with an umbrella that doesn’t quite cover everything. I try to change the channel whenever the commercials start so she won’t be tempted to say, “I want McDonald’s”, “I want Oreos” or “I want Welsh’s grape jelly.” When she asks if an outfit makes her look fat, I’m careful to say that she looks pregnant, not fat. Sometimes when she’s grumpy, I add, “You know, from behind, you don’t even look pregnant!”

We act like a married couple. We sit and talk about Bubba’s future. We debate circumcision. We ponder the impact of allowing him to play with dolls. We deliberate when to introduce him to a second language, and then a third. We plan how she’ll raise a strong man who won’t run away from his responsibilities. We watch him imitate Jean Claude van Damme, punching and kicking everything in his little world. We attend baby classes at the hospital.

She experiences everything while I play the role of observer and supporter. I watch in awe as her body changes. I wonder at the way she subconsciously adopts those caressing gestures that accentuate her beautiful shape. I gave up my office so Bubba can have a nursery. I hope I have the appropriate letters to spell out his real name on the door.

And I can’t wait to see him smile.

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

My Happy Thought

I wasn’t actively looking for it but I found my happy thought. It was there all along, right next to memories of horrific crimes and my mother’s chocolate chip cookie recipe. It wasn’t toys at Christmas, or sleigh bells, or snow. It wasn’t a mermaid lagoon, or a pirate’s cave, or being an Indian brave. Peter Pan told Wendy, “Think of the happiest things; it’s the same as having wings.” For me, the happiest thing was having wings. My happy thought was jumping out of an airplane.

I can rely on things like tiramisu, hot towels out of the dryer, and walking in the summer rain to summon a smile but it’s been a long time since I felt a smile bubble up through my chest. It’s been a long time since I felt real joy. I’ve had a good life. And I’ve had some unique experiences that have challenged me. For instance, I once spent 5 minutes standing next to a running SUV in a deserted beach parking lot at dusk while both my ex and his new wife were under it, checking its undercarriage. But I wanted more. I wanted joy. I knew that I would find it just outside of a plane at 10,000 feet.

On my birthday, my mother, my brother Jeff and my friend Cheryl drove to Providence. Their gift to me was sharing in the joy I sought. My mother was excited albeit a little tense. Jeff was relaxed. After all, he’s genetically predisposed to do the sort of things that I like to do. Cheryl was a nervous wreck. She reminded me that she would torment me for eternity if she died in a parachuting accident. She wasn’t at all grateful that I had prepared for such an accident by buying a special pastel colored garbage bag just for her.

When we turned down the dead end road leading to the Boston Providence Skydiving Center, I thought Cheryl was going to faint. It was a low budget place, a trailer with a tiny sign and a port-a-potty. I started to hope they sold Prozac smoothies. She relaxed a little when she met the staff, a group of friendly, knowledgeable people. They weren’t crazy thrill seekers with wild eyes, although some, the ones who wear camera equipment and free fall backwards, must have stayed on the tilt-a-whirl a few minutes too long.

Jeff and my mother went first. Jeff relished the excitement of free falling but felt bored by the glide to earth under the open canopy. My mother touched down with a huge smile and a wonderful feeling of accomplishment. She’s a Mom who leads by example, even if it means jumping out of a plane first. Funny, it was the only time I’d seen her without a purse. I don’t know which surprised me more, that she jumped or that she went somewhere without her purse.

Cheryl and I went up together, along with my teddy bear, Wim, who always travels with me. While Cheryl babbled incessantly, wearing a pinched smile despite the gorgeous Brazilian she was strapped to, I dozed. She’d always said she’d never go off a cliff for me, Thelma and Louise style, but she was about to eat her words.

I jumped first. It was absolutely amazing.

I’d expected, and hoped for, a little twinge of fear when they opened the door of the plane but I was relaxed and eager to leave the comfort zone. Sitting dangling out of the plane with nothing but my tailbone touching, I could look down at the earth. It was far enough away to resemble a black and white photograph. I felt anticipation but no fear or anxiety or dread. For three weeks, I’d smiled every time I imagined stepping out of the plane. I was ready to fly.

Butterflies fluttered in my stomach when we left the plane and entered the air. The initial drop was glorious. I was elated. I was flying! The roaring in my ears was not air rushing by me but me rushing through the air! The free fall lasted 45 incredible seconds. We fell at 200 feet per second but there was plenty of time to look around. It seemed that the ground rose to meet me, bringing the monochrome ponds and fields to life in brilliant color. When the chute opened, I, too, became bored. How can one be content with drifting under a canopy after having experienced flight?

The landing was bit of a letdown. I had to remind myself that there are no beginnings or endings, just movement. The grass was a stepping-stone to my next jump, or my next adventure, whichever comes first. Cheryl landed right behind me, on a stepping-stone to the rest of her life. She’d challenged herself immensely, conquering a terrible fear. She left the drop zone ready to kick down the door to her future.

We all celebrated on the tailgate of Cheryl’s truck with Krispy Kremes and champagne while Cheryl and my mother discussed their new roles as “the coolest Mom” and “the coolest Granny” in the world. Risk always has its rewards.

Peter Pan said it all, “Think of all the joy you’ll find, when you leave the world behind and bid your cares goodbye. You can fly.”

Blue skies.

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

Hitting 40

I blew my emergency $50, the one I keep stashed in my wallet for car wrecks and natural disasters, on junk food. This is a kind of emergency; I plan to spend the next 36 hours eating only stuff that isn’t good for me. In 36 hours, I will be entering middle age. I will be 40.

I like adventure. I moved to New York when I was 16. I joined the Army at 18. I became a cop at 21. I traveled through war torn areas of Europe when I was 30. I was on a security detail in Atlanta when the bomb exploded at the Olympics when I was 32. And I like to live on the edge. I tore the tag off my pillow when I was 10. I replaced my windshield wipers when I was 27. I wore lacy bras on patrol in case the paramedics needed to rip my shirt off to save my life. I ate my first Jujube when I was 39. So, when everyone asked what I wanted for my 40^th birthday, I decided to jumpstart my transition to middle age. Rather than be inundated with silly gifts, I decided to ask for donations for my skydiving fund.

The best things in life aren’t things. I already have enough stuff to dust. At my age, it’s time to make a little change, nothing huge, just a slight turn off the path, a couple of errant steps to alter my destiny. I like to travel and experience different cultures so skydiving seemed appropriate. I can fly to Paris any day. It’s time to experience the culture of the mid-troposphere.

I’m not an idiot. I remember the lesson I learned about gravity while climbing trees as a child. I learned it well enough to break two collarbones. But, at age 40, I figure, what the heck? At my age, I can put all my eggs in one basket, and dance in traffic, if I choose. I can throw caution to the wind. It’s either that or rent a limo with some girlfriends and watch naked 20-year-old boys dance at a women’s club.

Most people reacted to my birthday wish by saying, “Why jump out of a perfectly good airplane?” Well, why do astronauts leave a perfectly good Earth? Why did the chicken cross the road? It’s the journey, not the destination. Most people go to their graves with their music still inside them. I don’t want to be one of those people. And I want to step into 40 instead of running away from it. There are very few things in life that can’t be undone – stepping out of that plane will be one of them. Besides, how many opportunities will I have to be securely strapped to a thrill-seeking hunk? Not many, unless I take my handcuffs out of retirement.

My friend Cheryl has been dodging this year since the day after her 35^th birthday. She once said, “You’re my best friend but I’m not going over a cliff for you.” When I announced my skydiving plans, she told me I have “thrill issues” and am “crazy”. When I explained that I had my physiatrist’s permission to jump, she thought I said “psychiatrist” and rushed to the conclusion that I really am insane. How’s that for a best friend? I argued that falling at 100+ mph could work better than a facelift, raising our eyelids to our hairlines. Then I suggested that she wasn’t young enough at heart to take a chance. After some soul searching, she decided to jump with me, 45 days before her own 40th. I’ve promised to push her out of the plane if she hesitates. I understand the risks. If I jump after her and she vomits, I will be drenched in it. But I’ll take the chance because I’m a good friend. And just think, if we splat, we’ll be put into the same trash bag by burly men with shovels. Best friends forever.

My little brother, Jeff, is coming, too. Our Mom vacillated for about a week. She has always made us promise to push her out of a plane if she ever becomes old and cantankerous. Well, she’s old (64) so this is my opportunity to keep that promise. She’s going with us.

People think we’re nuts for wanting to jump out of a plane. Life is full of decisions - what to eat, what to wear, when to move forward and when to back up. It’s not the decision you make but that you make the decision. If my destiny is death by deceleration trauma, then I want to enjoy the ride down. And if I jump on my 40^th birthday, my tombstone will be nice and tidy.

I read somewhere that a parent’s advice to a child should be, “In life, you will come to a great chasm. Jump, it’s not as wide as you think.

Geronimo!

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

Turning 40? No Problem

I spent New Years Eve in the broadcast studio of a local radio station with my friend Cheryl. She was doing a live, all-request show to count down the last hours of the year. At midnight, she made the mistake of opening my microphone and asking for my thoughts on the New Year. I took it as an invitation to tell her listening audience that she and I would be turning 40 in the new year. It was the second time in our friendship that I’d seen her at a loss for words.

She’s not happy about turning 40. I have no problem with it. For the past 30 years, I’ve looked forward to 40 as a time when I would be established, when I’d feel completely grown up and comfortable in my own skin. As 40 approaches, my friends say the only thing missing in my life is a man. I’m not sure one is necessary. I just spent more money on my new mattress than I spent on my first car. I don’t plan to share it with just anyone.

Whoever said that revenge is a dish best served cold must have been married. I’ve discovered that dating is a dish best served piping hot, like McDonald’s french fries which, once cooled, become chewy, greasy and decidedly unappetizing. The few guys I’ve dated cooled off, and became unpalatable, very quickly. I can tell a date is going nowhere when the dinner conversation starts to sound like grown-up talk in an animated Peanuts cartoon. I don’t think that my standards are too high. Almost any tall, well-educated man with a dog would do. But it’s becoming increasingly difficult to meet the type of man who won’t hide behind me in a bar fight. And now that I’m retired from the police department, I can’t wear the shirt that says, “feel safe, sleep with a cop.” I can, however, still remind them that they have the right to remain silent and that anything, no, everything, they say or do will be held against them. So far, they’ve all taken the hint.

When I was a child, people didn’t ask little girls if they wanted to be astronauts. They asked about the man the girls wanted to marry. Prince Charming always seemed like a reasonable catch. He was tall, good-looking, with a promising future as King. He also had a nice house, a horse-drawn carriage and enough money to buy me a dog. But now I have my own house, a nice car, a decent income and a great dog. My CD collection is organized just the way I like it. My attic and basement are gadget-free. The toilet seat is always down. My television is not the size of a Volkswagen. I don’t guzzle Budweiser. There are no unfinished projects on the dining room table. I always know where my shoes are. I don’t leave towels on the floor. I take out the trash. I don’t yell at the dog when I trip over her. I don’t need Prince Charming anymore. I’ve become the man I wanted to marry.

Still, there’s a certain pull toward the opposite sex that I can’t deny. Men are fun to be with. The things they do and say can be an endless source of amusement. And it’s nice to feel warm and safe and loved in the arms of a man. How hard can it be to find a man who makes me feel that way? So I turned to my friend Aimee, the dating guru. She said something about finding a needle in a haystack and pointed me towards the online personal ads. She enjoys meeting men that way but it isn’t my style, especially after I realized that I already know the first two men the service offered to contact for me!

It would be easier to buy a magnet to search the haystack for that ever-elusive needle. Maybe I’ll get a portable microwave for when things start to cool down. Then again, maybe it’s time to start renewing childhood dreams. I wonder if Prince William is spoken for…

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

Service Dog Debate

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I posted this as a comment on Carin's blog (http://vomitcomet.blogspot.com)
and decided to post it here, too.

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In response to the issues about people lying about their dogs being service dogs...

My disability is not obvious. In fact, I occasionally have days when my dog doesn't have much to do. That does not mean that she isn't a service dog. Yet I've been challenged by people ever since those articles started coming out.

If a person has a seizure once every three months, does that mean their seizure alert dog is not a service dog and should not accompany them into stores?

Also, my dog is self-trained. I could not afford the price of a service dog and I used to be a dog trainer. I also didn't want to wait 2 years on a waiting list to be charged $15,000 US dollars for a dog.

You can get a guide dog for beans compared to that.

The people pushing for national certification of service dogs are the same people who run the service dog schools that have been popping up all over the place since the veterans of Iraq have been incurring such drastic injuries.

Who will they promote to certify the dogs? Themselves, of course. What chance do I have that they will certify my self-trained dog?

I trained my dog for my specific needs. I don't need a dog that helps me balance or that can pull a wheelchair. Why wait for one of those? Why pay for one of those?

Who will decide what disabilities NEED to be mitigated by a service dog. The schools that charge an arm and a leg (pun intended) for the dogs they've trained, of course.

I don't understand why guide dogs for the blind can be procured for less than $500. when other service dogs cost more than $15,000. Guide dogs for the
blind are literally life savers. They don't serve like other types of service dogs; they lead. They practice intelligent disobedience. All that for $500? And you have to pay $15,000 for a dog that simply follows commands?

Anyway, the purpose of my rant is to question the motives of these people who want to regulate the business of training and certifying service dogs.

Maybe when they are also charging a minimal fee for the placement of their dogs, I will trust their motives.

In the meantime, people are people. They will lie and cheat as often as they can. I remember seeing sighted people wearing sunglasses on the buses in New York city in the 1980s so they could get their dogs onto the buses. It happened then; it's happening now; it will happen in five years, regardless of what regulations are put into play.

My dog is as much a service dog as any that have been "professionally" trained.

I'm tired of people threatening to take her away.




Jill



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Apollo's Gift

A friend called the other morning. His voice was hoarse. He explained that his vocal cords needed to be warmed up because he hadn’t spoken yet. I told him to get a dog. I’m always telling him to get a dog. Everyone needs a good dog. But this time I had a great angle. A dog is the perfect tool for keeping your vocal cords flexible. The last thing you utter before sleep is, “you can’t possibly have to pee again, just go lie down” and the first words you scream in the morning are, “it’s only 6 o’clock, leave me alone, puh-lease!” He was amused but he passed on the offer to borrow one of my dogs for practice.

My roommate doesn’t have my vocal flexibility. She has no need of screaming or even talking. Her dog, Apollo, a white Boxer, is deaf.

People are fascinated when they first learn about Apollo. We humor their silly questions. One of my nephews was so surprised that he asked, “Does he walk into walls?”. My cousin was pleased that Apollo can bark. She wanted to know if he sounds to other dogs the way a deaf person who’s learning to talk sounds to us.

Other people ask if it’s difficult caring for a dog that’s abnormal. We don’t humor those people. Apollo is a constant reminder to us that “normal” is not the same thing as “average” or “typical”. He’s not an aberration. He was just born with something that most other dogs don’t have – adorable little pig ears that are decorative instead of functional.

A handicap? I don’t think so. While Kevvie, the old lady, is shaking in terror during a thunderstorm, Apollo is sleeping like a rock. While Ripley, the fireball, is trying to dodge and kill the monster inside the vacuum cleaner, Apollo is waiting patiently for a really good suction massage. And he has an advantage when we interrupt an incident of doggie malicious destruction. While everyone else runs for cover hoping we’re not really yelling at them, Apollo just turns his head away - the deaf dog equivalent of putting his hands over his ears and humming – because if he can’t see the anger on our faces, then it’s not there.

Unlike people, other dogs don’t seem to care that Apollo is deaf. Most dog communication is silent anyway. Have you ever been in a room with three fiercely possessive dogs who have gone off to three separate corners with their bones and suddenly, without any detectable signal, they swap bones and corners? How eerie is that? And just how difficult could it be for Apollo to interpret Ripley’s “read my lips” message of bared teeth when she’s tired of playing? Or the out-of-the-corner-of-her-eye glare that Kevvie gives him when he gets too close to her dish? Even the cat’s raised, hooked paw speaks a thousand words.

Apollo doesn’t know that he’s deaf so it doesn’t affect him. He cruises the communication super highway with ease. If he’s not interested in obeying our hand signals for obedience commands, he looks away with a devilish gleam in his eye. If he wants to go through a closed door, he readies his nails and cocks his eyebrow, daring us to ignore him. When he’s upset, he snorts. When he’s happy, he squirms. And it’s no more difficult for us. To get his attention, we stomp on the floor to send a vibration his way. To show our displeasure, we point at him and scowl. To praise him, we smile and mime applause.

He may sleep through a few raucous renditions of “there’s someone at the door” or be a few seconds late for lunch because he didn’t hear the dog food cabinet open but that doesn’t mean he isn’t like everyone else. He sheds. He chews. He has bad breath. He sleeps on the sofa when we’re not home. He licks himself in front of company. And he understands the power of sound - that funny vibration he can make in his throat. He knows when to use his amusing, chortling growl to enliven a wrestling match. He even climbs onto the bench of our deck and stands surveying his territory, barking in single, well-spaced woofs to proclaim himself “king of the world”.

Apollo is no different from other dogs. Well, with his pig ears, stub tail and smashed-in face, he’s very different from the German Shepherd with pointed ears, a long tail and a tapered muzzle but inside, he’s a regular, everyday Fido. Just a dog. A sweet, kind, wiggly (and usually pleasingly quiet) dog.

Maybe I should change my strategy and sell my friend on a deaf dog.

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

Project Blue Light

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I have buried friends who were killed in the line of duty. I have looked into the eyes of my colleagues’ children, children who have learned that their Daddy or Mommy may not come home tomorrow night. I have watched everyone around me grapple with their own mortality.

But I have healed.

I have given and accepted more hugs than I expected. I have found hidden reservoirs of courage, of serenity, of conviction, and of humility. I have shared thoughts and feelings I’d never shared before. I have been reminded again to cherish every minute. I have spoken to people who have changed their views of police officers after seeing so many stoic men and women cry - after seeing how many of us found the strength to continue our work, choking back our tears as we pried accident victims from badly damaged cars and mediated violent domestic disputes. I have seen citizens offer the best of themselves because they felt the pain and shock of our losses.

Because of those losses, I’m never in the mood for Christmas. I grimace at the thought of cheerful holidays without my friends. Every year, Christmas creeps up on me like a predator. I am stunned by the reminders of it as I drive through town. Each turn reveals more festive houses decorated in lights. Sometimes I map out detours around the most cheerful ones.

But I always end up thinking of the story of the Grinch. There was something about how Christmas comes no matter what. It comes even when there are no bells, no whistles, no toys, no roast beast. It comes even when our loved ones can no longer share it with us. It’s there to raise our spirits at least once each year. It’s there to give us time to remember and to share.

The message of the Grinch’s story draws me out of the depression. It propels me up the stairs to the attic where I keep my Christmas decorations. I begin to smile at the lights and I sing the songs. Each evening leading to Christmas, I take a few moments to look for a new Christmas display to brighten my spirits, to remember that life goes on.

I’ve already decorated my house. My Christmas ornaments are traditional with one exception; I follow the custom of Concerns of Police Survivors (http://www.nationalcops.org/index.htm ), the custom of Project Blue Light.

According to COPS, Project Blue Light began in 1988 when the organization adopted the idea of displaying blue lights for the holidays to honor the officers who serve and protect us while remembering those who have been killed in the line of duty.

“The color blue is associated with law enforcement.” explains former COPS National President Shirley Gibson. “One single blue light in a window makes such a dramatic and important statement.”

So, each Christmas, I make that statement.

From December 1st until January 1st, I shine a blue light in my front window, a single blue light.

I do it to honor my friends who were killed in the line of duty. I do it to show people that I think about the sacrifices made by police officers every day. I do it because I appreciate the officers who protect my friends and family as we tuck our children into bed on Christmas Eve.

I do it because I remember the smiles of some very special cops.

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

The Man Mall

I finally ventured out to the man mall, a.k.a. Home Depot. Imagine a store where you could buy a thousand different types of bath bubbles or chocolates or scented lotions! This is it, except the bath bubbles are nails, and the chocolates are screws, and the scented lotions are plumbing supplies. And they’re stacked twenty-five feet high!

Man Heaven, that’s what it is, Man Heaven. I was really surprised that there weren’t any jars of beef jerky or displays of men’s magazines.

The few women shoppers in the store all seemed to be congregating around serious looking men whose bright orange aprons reminded me of Oompa Loompas. I was with my brother so I didn’t need any Oompa Loompas to help me. And he was doing the shopping so I had plenty of time to look around.

Everywhere I looked, contented men were pushing big, steel carts loaded with all sorts of medieval devices. There were tall men, short men, young men, old men, married men, and single men. There were enough men in that store to give one away free with every purchase! I would have gone through the register to get one if I’d been able to scale fifteen feet of shelving to grab a 60-watt light bulb, the only product in the store that I know how to use.

My father gave me a toolbox in 1987. It’s filled with useless things like screwdrivers, 9/16 wrenches, and something called a ratchet that has nothing to do with tennis. The toolbox has been in the garage, hermetically sealed by dust, because I subscribe to the practical notion that there are only two tools necessary for maintaining a home, duct tape and WD 40. One makes wobbly things stick and the other makes sticky things wobble. I accessorized my “tool” collection with a hammer. I keep it in the kitchen because it’s handy for opening coconuts and chipping ice off my windshield in the winter. In a pinch, it can make sticky things wobble when I run out of WD 40.

The hammer was also useful for smashing rust off the latch on the toolbox. Last Thursday, I bought an unassembled tricycle for my three year old friend Brady. The writing on the box touted the trike as “easy to assemble”, stating, “Adjustable wrench required.” “Adjustable wrench” sounded innocuous, at least adaptable, so I brought the box home, and emptied its contents on the kitchen floor. To make those random pieces of metal resemble a tricycle, I had to use flat and Phillips head screwdrivers, a ball peen hammer, pliers, scissors, a hunk of wood, a vise, lubricating gel, a utility knife, two hours of my time, and enough bad language to get me grounded for the rest of my life. At least I didn’t have any pieces left over when I was finished.

I presented my masterpiece to Brady, and discovered that he couldn’t reach the pedals. A male friend suggested using a contraption called a "keyed bolt with a hex nut" to extend the pedals but I was developing a phobia of things metal so I didn’t bother. I just admitted defeat and banished the tricycle to the garage with its friend and accomplice, the toolbox. The next day, a female friend gave me advice I could use. Duct taping a rolled-up newspaper around the pedals did the trick. I used the WD 40 can as a mold to get the newspaper rolled just so.

That’s why I was at Home Depot. I’m out of duct tape. But I was so busy looking at men that I forgot to buy it. I hope they decide to implement my idea for the free giveaway before I go back.

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

Zoloft

It has occurred to me many times that I was a person who used to make things happen yet had begun to let things happen. My German friends would say, “You’re standing on your wire.” In other words, clumsily interrupting the flow of information to the brain. Just lifting my feet didn’t work. I saw in a movie that clicking my heels together three times could do the trick but I don’t own any red shoes.

Still, I wanted to make something happen. So I decided to get Zoloft for Christmas. No, not Zoloft, the medication that’s prescribed for depression and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

This is a different Zoloft.

My Zoloft doesn’t promise to help correct the chemical imbalance of serotonin in my brain. In fact, it doesn’t promise anything. And I didn’t need a prescription to get it. It came in a compact package weighing about one pound, delivered right to my doorstep after dark.

My Zoloft isn’t covered by insurance but it’s fairly inexpensive. It doesn’t ruin my concentration; it makes me more aware. It doesn’t make me unusually tired or sleepy; it makes me smile. It doesn’t make me feel agitated; I hear soothing noises when I’m near it. It doesn’t make sleeping difficult; I sleep more warmly at night. And it doesn’t give me a dry mouth or upset my stomach.

There are some side effects but they are negligible, mostly olfactory and dermatological, although sometimes it interferes with television viewing and gives me fleas. I’ve given this Zoloft a street nickname of Zoë.

Now when I feel sad, I don’t take a blue-sky pill. I take a fur break. I hunt behind the sofa and in closets and under the bed until I find a warm, squirmy little mass of calico hair with green eyes and a bad attitude.

I haven’t had a kitten in eight years. It’s an experience.

I’ve been reminded that when looking for a misplaced kitten, one should always check the closed refrigerator and the depths of the basket of dirty laundry – wearing gloves. I’ve also been reminded what cat food can do to a dog’s digestive system. And I’ve discovered that I no longer need to throw away those plastic rings from the tops of gallons of milk. Instead, I get to step on them in my bare feet after I turn off the lights.

She’s a bit of a tomboy. So far, she’s fouled the bathroom sink and the shower. When she does locate the litter box, she scatters litter to every corner of the room. She also scatters her food and goes fishing in her water dish for something only she can see. She inflicts other damage, too. The dog carries emotional scars from Zoloft’s painful rebukes. The stuffed dog on my bed bears physical scars from being an involuntary wrestling partner. My scalp does not benefit from the way she “kneads dough” in my hair at bedtime and her idea of a good time is climbing my leg, freestyle, right after I get out of the shower.

But that’s okay because she makes me laugh.

And she’s more effective than the real Zoloft.

Now when I think there’s a monster in my room at night, I know I’m not imagining it, especially when it clamps its tiny razor sharp teeth onto my little toe. When I wake from a sound sleep feeling like I’m suffocating, I don’t have to get out of the house for a breath of fresh air, I just remove the ball of fur from my face and go back to sleep. When I have writer’s block, she distracts me, biting the end of my pen or writing her own stories by walking on the computer keyboard.

I used to enjoy watching chipmunks scamper through the low bushes and along the rock walls in my neighborhood. Once I began standing on my wire, I seldom saw them anymore. Each rare sighting made me think of adding chipmunks to those lists of things from our childhoods that have disappeared, like Teaberry gum, 15 cent hamburgers at McDonalds, and those metal ice cube trays with levers.

Since getting Zoloft, I’ve started noticing chipmunks in my yard. Maybe it’s a sign.

But maybe when Zoloft gets big enough to eat the chipmunks, I’ll need a prescription for the real stuff.

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

Cape Cod Cronies

The waitress working the back dining room at the Scargo Café has no idea what she's in for. The patrons are staring, wondering, perhaps, if the four women seated at the corner table are actresses from the Cape Playhouse across the street. Their chatter is non-stop and delivered in one-liners that don't miss a beat. Or perhaps they're simply amused by the ruckus the women cause. There's an aura about them. There's electricity in the air. There's a familiarity among them, a closeness. Maybe they're not family, but they definitely are a team.

The question is, "A team of what?"

Actually, the corner table of four grandmothers is harmless.

"We're just dull," laughs Joan Robinson. Hardly.

The good-natured bantering is difficult to follow but intriguing enough to make the most polite diner eavesdrop. The comments come too fast to identify the speakers.

"Audrey's been here since 4:30."

"No, I haven't. Jackie was here before me."

"Not by long."

"We actually had a real conversation going."

"Yes, but we've forgotten what it was."

"We have that forgetting disease."

(left to right) Audrey, Joan, Joanne, Jackie

It's a repeat of the month before, and the month before that, and the month before that.

"Joanne started it."

"I don't remember that at all."

"You remember, don't you?"

"We have that forgetting disease"

They do, at least, remember to get together once each month to share a meal. It's something they've been doing steadily for more than 10 years, and occasionally for almost 60.

They might as well be actresses because their story plays out like a soap opera.

Joanne Thomas Jackson and Audrey Van Dusen Macomber became friends in the first grade. They were members of the first class to graduate from Dennis-Yarmouth High School's current Station Avenue location. As schoolgirls, they befriended Jackie Poole Johnson. Jackie graduated from the Yarmouth High School where grades 1-12 all studied together at what is now the Middle School.

Audrey is quick to point out, "She's old."

Jackie spiced up the group by introducing Joan Robinson Robinson. Joan quickly explains the apparent typo by saying, "I went down the aisle a Robinson and I came back up the aisle a Robinson." Joan hails from Attleboro but summered on Cape Cod before taking a local teaching job. She moved in with Jackie in 1963.

She says, "Jackie worked in the drugstore and I needed a place to live. I figured I could stand her and she figured she could stand me."

The four women's lives have been intertwined ever since.

"We've had our ups and we've had our downs," says Joan. "And we've had our way downs."

In the early 1960s, Jackie, Joanne and Joan all lived on the same South Yarmouth street. Jackie and Joan are still neighbors on that same street. In the early 1970s, Joanne and Audrey were neighbors in Yarmouth Port.

But those aren't the only ties.

Jackie and Joanne both married in 1959. Audrey was a guest at Joanne's wedding. She asked Joanne to be in her wedding party but, as Joanne is quick to explain, "I wasn't the maid of honor because Audrey liked someone else better." And, of course, Jackie went to Joan's wedding.

It wasn't difficult to stay friends once they settled into married life.

Joan explains, "We spent a lot of time being pregnant together."

Jackie had the first child, but there is still lingering envy that Joanne had the first girl. Both have three sons and one daughter. Audrey has one daughter. Joan outdid them all with five, three sons and two daughters.

She says to Joanne, "I remember lumbering into your house when I was 10 months pregnant."

Joanne smugly counters. "By then, I had three."

During an animated discussion about ordering dessert, they explain the godparent situation. Audrey is godmother to Joanne's first child and Joan to Joanne's second child. Jackie was pegged for Joanne's third. Jackie is godmother to Joan's second because "I waited until I had a girl to ask her." Joan finally made the grade when Jackie had her third boy.

"She was waiting for a girl, too" quips Joan, "but she was taking too long."

They chat non-stop about their grandchildren. Joan and Joanne are tied with six while Audrey and Jackie each have one.

"But," Jackie notes, "I am waiting for more."

In the meantime, they share their "back in our day" stories each month at a different restaurant. They marvel at the conveniences modern mothers enjoy. Their e-mail capabilities thrill them. Joan says, "I feel very 21st century."

Joanne and Audrey aren't quite as confident. They tried to use computers while planning their 40th high school reunion, and are currently trying to plan their 45th. Even modern phones scare them. Joanne says that she sometimes hears Audrey's voice coming out of her pocketbook when she's shopping. Both women have Nextel mobile phones and neither has a firm grasp of the special walkie-talkie feature.

The self-named "cronies" also discuss things like wrinkles and the aging process. After one particularly revealing comment from across the table, Joan remarks, "I could have lived 110 years without knowing that."

The dining tradition began after a dinner at Joanne's house. They had so much fun that they decided to do it on a regular basis. When Joanne asked, "Where will we meet?" she was met with a chorus of "Here, of course. No kids. No noise."

They cooked and brought different dishes each month, only 'screwing up" once in 10 years.

"I was supposed to make meat but made dessert instead. We ended up with two desserts," Joanne confesses. "So Audrey drove to the store and bought a barbecued chicken."

In 2002, they started eating out. Joanne pretends to be offended, "Either they got sick of my house or they got sick of cooking."

"No, it was too much for you," Jackie points out.

Audrey smiles, "And now someone serves us and cleans up after us."

"We're lazy," adds Joan.

Joanne pipes in, "The best part is that Joan can't nod off in a restaurant."

"Yeah," Jackie says, "she sleeps in the movies, too."

Joan sheepishly admits, "I do."

After a photo session on the restaurant steps that leaves the photographer shaking his head, next month's locale is discussed. It's like pulling taffy.

Joanne asks, "Where haven't we been?"

For the first time, there's silence.

Joan makes a face, "I'm not suggesting a place because Joanne will shoot me down."

According to Jackie, "Yeah, she will."

Audrey looks down at the table.

So, who ultimately decides which restaurant will have the privilege of serving "the cronies" next month? Joanne, of course.

Note to the Outback Steakhouse. Watch out!

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

Fernando's Last Mission

Last week, out of the corner of my eye, I saw my cat on the porch rail, his fluffy black tail curled around his legs as he stared through the window at me. It used to be a common sight but not recently. My cat, officially named Fernando and nicknamed The Brat, died last February.

I wanted to bury him in his favorite shady spot under the peach tree in the front yard but the frozen ground made me reconsider after a friend recounted his story of a shallow grave and a raiding coyote who returned after a second burial to finish the meal. So I decided to lay him to rest in his favorite sunny spot in the fenced back yard where he’d be safe from grave robbers.

I waited until night because it seemed more appropriate. The dogs kept me company. The hard earth made the heartbreaking task even more difficult. When I’d managed to dig just deep enough, I wrapped Fernando in his favorite fleece blanket and placed him in the grave.

Ripley immediately moved to intervene. She continually prodded Fernando gently with her nose, her signal for “C’mon, let’s play!”, an enterprise which generally consisted of her having lots of fun at the cat’s expense. She seemed confused when he didn’t respond. Her reaction saddened me but I was more concerned about Kevvie.

When she was four years old, Kevvie excitedly traded her collection of stuffed animal “babies” for the little bundle of black fur that purred. She raised him as if he were her own puppy. She shared her food and her bed until the gloomy day when he preferred solitary meals and naps. He’d grown up. He was a cat. She was still maternal, greeting him every morning with a lick and a wag. He always responded by rubbing against her face. He trusted her and they were friends but their relationship had changed. Kevvie found comfort in a stuffed buffalo.

That night in the yard, Kevvie stepped into Fernando’s grave and nestled up against his body. She seemed to want to warm him. She licked him once and then looked at me before laying her head next to his. I didn’t know how to explain it to her so I sat on the ground near her. Even Ripley understood the seriousness of the moment and was still. We were all waiting for the impossible – for Fernando to awaken, or for understanding and acceptance.

The former was a fairy tale. The latter came more quickly for Kevvie. Her mothering instinct told her that her kitty was gone. Ripley and I were not as pragmatic.

Ripley checked the windows several times each day and often pushed through the door to the cellar to look for Fernando in his secret napping place. I saw him or heard his bell every day for a month, then more and more infrequently. Eventually, we both realized what Kevvie knew. Time has its way of treating those wounds.

Kevvie turned twelve in May. Her eyes are failing, her mind is wandering, her legs can barely support her weight, and she sleeps most of the time. She spends many sunny days sleeping on Fernando’s grave. But she still eats heartily. She still follows me from room to room despite the obvious discomfort. She still greets visitors with gusto. And she still laughs at herself when she falls on the tile like Bambi on the ice.

She doesn’t know that her time in the sun is limited. But I do.

I try to repay the gifts of love that Kevvie has selflessly given me for twelve years. I forgive her when she doesn’t wake up in time to make it to the yard to relieve herself. I forgive her when she bites my fingers in her haste to get the cookies she has trouble seeing. I sit on the floor and massage her tired, old legs. I ask her for kisses even though her breath stinks. I feed her first at mealtimes and pet her last at bedtime. I tell her I love her.

But all my efforts don’t keep the cat away. Kevvie hasn’t noticed him yet but I have. He’s helping me prepare for the day when he’ll come back for her.

And I have no choice.

I’ll have to let her go with him.

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

The Personal Ad

I asked a man out the other day. I’m not sure if I did it right. I wasn’t exactly smooth. He said no. Actually, he said, “No, I’m seeing someone - but thank you.” He was very sweet. As it turns out, someone had already suggested he call me. I could have saved myself some work if I’d known. After all, I’m not desperate.I’m just open to possibilities.

So, now what?

My friends suggested read-ing the personal ads. I know two married couples who met that way but I’m skeptical. All those acronyms and abbreviations scare me. I understand SWM (single white male) but the rest are confusing.

Does S/M mean “smoker” or something else entirely? Do I really want to find out? Personal ads fill a half inch box of newspaper print. If all of his good traits fit in that box - “SWM, non-smoker, likes romantic dinners and walks on the beach” – what about his bad traits? When do I get to read about those? I don’t think there are any standard acronyms for a cross dresser, or worse, a closet country music singer.

So, my friends offered to help me write my own personal ad, sort of a “throw the bait out and see what bites” approach. Maybe I’m demanding but there doesn’t seem to be enough room for my specifications. I can’t fit the qualities I want, never mind what I don’t want.

I gave it a try anyway. I wrote a rough draft with my own abbreviations. My ad will read “SWF seeks P/E/C plus a,b,c,d,…x,y,z, minus 1, 2, 3,…100”.

P/E/C is Post Ex Criteria. My ex was my height, older, and balding. So I’d prefer a guy who’s taller and younger - with hair.

The letters of the alphabet represent the things I want. The numbers are the things I don’t want. Naturally there are more numbers than letters.

The man who will answer my ad enjoys cats, knows good wine and beer, understands that chocolate is a basic food group, and is able to cook something other than toasted peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. He speaks another language, preferably French so I can improve mine. He is friends with his ex-girlfriends. He’s committed at least one selfless act – and no felonies. He owns more than one tie. He’s able to ask what I’m thinking – and listen to the answer. He likes to hold hands in public, writes thank you notes and regularly calls his mother. He has a dog that weighs more than 20 pounds. He laughs at my jokes. He knows how to pronounce Merlot, pâté, and prophylactic. He remembers my birthday. He uses baby talk around puppies. He has a discreet tattoo that doesn’t say ‘Mom” or “I love Beth”. He plays to win. He takes me to subtitled movies that don’t involve any of the martial arts. He chews with his mouth closed. He doesn’t laugh when I make snow angels. All of his piercings are visible when he’s fully clothed. He replaces the toilet paper roll. He reads books, even books without pictures. He calls when he says he will. He buys tickets to the opera for me to use on his big football night with the guys. He likes my mother. No wait, he loves my mother. Oh, and he can leap small buildings in a single bound.

He doesn’t wear his baseball cap in restaurants. He hasn’t nicknamed his car something like “Noble Charger” as in, “Would you like to see my…” He doesn’t wear a suit on his days off. If he drinks milk right out of the carton, he never puts it back with only one sip left. He doesn’t heat water for tea by turning on the faucet. If he wears a Hawaiian shirt, there are no hula dancers on it. He doesn’t answer his cell phone during dinner, or during sex. He may not understand why flowers make my day – but he sends some anyway. He never asks, “Does this outfit make me look fat?” He’s not intimidated by any show of strength from a woman. He doesn’t list any of the Three Stooges among his heroes. He isn’t afraid to tell me the embarrassing truth about how he really got that scar. He’s not a former varsity basketball player who can’t toss his dirty underwear 3 feet into the laundry basket. Blazing Saddles is not his favorite movie. Oh, and he doesn’t wear tights, or a cape – at least not in public.

Now that I think about it, every guy I know is dating a waitress. I could be a waitress. It would be a lot easier to fill out an application and carry heavy trays of food than to write a personal ad.

Where do I apply?

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

No Taming Of This Shrew

Last night I was curled up on my sofa reading the Taming of The Shrew. Why? Well, it started about three weeks ago. I’d met my friend for a beer and snacks. A man I knew slightly stopped to talk to us. Although my intention had been to introduce him to my friend, he didn’t ask for her number. He asked for mine. Even though I’m 36 years old, I was elated by the simple act of scribbling seven digits onto a scrap of paper. I am willing to reveal that it has been some time since a man has asked for my phone number. Something like 18 years, in fact.

Well, I didn’t believe that he’d call. In fact, I didn’t even care. It was the thought that counted. It was the thought that made me consider buying a new bra, maybe one with a little lace – although my friend suggested a low cut shirt and my brother lobbied for a thong.

Of course, I was pleased when he actually called for a date. A man who allows his dog onto the leather seats of his prized car and who makes me laugh can’t be all bad. He even let me look through the CD’s he keeps in his car – the true road map to a man’s soul. And, yes, I enjoyed his company. Enough that I hoped he’d call again.

He didn’t. Maybe it was the gun thing that scared him away. For some reason, “normal” guys don’t like to date cops. Maybe I’m just not as nice as I thought I was. I am a Taurus, after all, and true to form. Maybe it was because I didn’t wear a low cut shirt, or a thong. I’ll probably never know. But I do know that I waited like a school girl for him to call again.

And that’s why I was reading The Taming of the Shrew. The transformation of Kate from a “shrew” – a woman who spoke her mind and was true to herself – to a “dutiful wife” is always a pleasant reminder not to pursue love blindly. Not to hunt for a man. Not to morph myself into what might attract a man who catches my eye. Not to get caught up in the fairy tale. I always laugh when Petruchio admonishes Kate that her hat is not becoming and instructs her to “throw it underfoot”. She responds by dashing it to the ground. She follows it up by chastising her female companions stating, “a woman mov’d is like a fountain troubled - muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty..” Yadda, yadda, yadda. As if. Hey Kate, talk to the hand.

“A woman mov’d” is what I am – passionate, intelligent, thoughtful and fun loving. I know what I want, like what I do, am comfortable in my own skin, and enjoy my own company. And even though I love the way men think, the way they act, and the way they view the world, I won’t pay the price Kate paid for male companionship. Not on your life.

How sad for Petruchio that he starved his wife into feeling that she owed him “such duty as the subject owes the prince”! How sad that he deprived her of the company of her sister until she was willing to “serve, love and obey”! Imagine the quality of his life if he’d had a companion who encouraged him, compromised with him, engaged him in lively conversation, and enlightened him with the contents of her mind!

When I finished the play, I regained my grip on reality. I remembered that I am not a school girl. I remembered that I enjoy my independence. I called him once to let him know that I was still interested, and then I stopped waiting for the phone to ring. After all, I was fine before he called, and I’ll be fine if he never calls again.

My friend says that he’s slime. The word she really used can’t be printed. There are moments when I agree. Still, I owe him a debt of gratitude. If he hadn’t asked for my number, I wouldn’t have been reminded of how good my life is. Sure, I’d like to share it but I’m not willing to sacrifice my self to get it. Besides, how hard can it be to find a nice man who wants a woman who doesn’t need his money, doesn’t care what kind of car he drives, isn’t desperate for marriage or children, and wants him to spend time with his friends?

So, who lost here?

You won’t need to use one of your lifelines to answer that question. He’ll never get to walk on the beach at sunset with me and our dogs. His loss. He’ll never get to meet my Mom. His loss. He’ll never know how good my chocolate chip cookies are. Yup, his loss. He’ll never know that I love Willy Wonka and The Chocolate Factory. Or how I cry over a good book. Or what makes me giggle. His loss. And he’ll never get to see the new bra. Um, yah, his loss.

And when the next guy comes along and I consider sitting by the phone waiting for him to call, Shakespeare will bring me back to reality and I’ll get a good laugh out of how easy it is to be trapped by the prospect of love.

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

The Dream

Romeo – “I dreamt a dream tonight.”
Mercutio – “And so did I.”
Romeo – “Well, what was yours?”
Mercutio – “That dreamers often lie.”

Mercutio didn’t know what he was talking about. I dreamt a dream, too, when I’d fallen asleep on the sofa. In my dream, my house was crying. Water was pouring down the inside walls in streams of tears. Tears that started in the attic and disappeared into the basement. Tears that began ripping apart the inside of the house. Walls were peeling. Cabinets were sagging from the ceilings. Photos and mementos were melting and washing away with the tears. Amid the chaos, I was frantically calling everyone I knew, becoming more and more unraveled as each phone call ended the same way – no one knew who could help me stop the destruction. The exterior of the house remained intact, a façade in every sense of the word, its yellow paint smiling in the sun, a bright mask for the turmoil inside. But the sun wasn’t coming through the windows. The interior buckled under the weight of the tears. It sagged and folded inward. With the phone in my hand, I watched the demolition. The tears ravaged my home, eradicating my past, swallowing up my present, annihilating my future, drowning my dreams. And there was no one left to call. I was scared, hurt, angry and desperate. I woke up scared, hurt, angry and desperate. I’m still scared, hurt, angry and desperate.

That’s why my dogs dialed 911 one day when I wasn’t home. No, really. They used my new cordless phone. They were pleased with the response they got. Four police officers and three firefighters forced open the door to visit with them – and search for me – when the police dispatcher was not able to get through on the phone. I found the slightly chewed and fairly slimy phone on the floor near the dog beds. The line was still open. My brother thinks they wanted me to come home so they called the shop. I think they were practicing. They wanted to know how long it would take to get someone to make their lunch if I didn’t get off the sofa to do it.

They knew what I haven’t wanted to admit. That after months of feeling depressed, I have officially made the jump to actually being depressed. And they were worried because their food is behind a closed door.

They knew something was going wrong. They’d heard me whisper the words when I thought they weren’t listening. Words like sad, grieving, and empty. They hear me say that I feel like I am outside my body when people insist that a forced retirement at the age of 37 is a fresh start. They see me taking sleeping pills or drinking wine before bed. They hear me grind my teeth when I finally fall asleep. They watch me make dinners that I leave on the counter after one bite. They feel the frustration when I snap at them for no reason. They see me cringe whenever the word “disabled” is tossed around as though it were harmless. They understand that I have the best intentions when I get up, take a shower, then lose interest in the day and go back to bed. They listen to the messages that friends leave on my machine when I don’t bother to answer the phone. They know that I feel detached from everything, including the pains in my head and my chest but they follow me when I go to the medicine cabinet for relief. Then they follow me again when I wander through the house looking for comfort in the things that used to make me smile. They follow me back to the sofa when I find none. And they stay in the room with me when I sit in silence. They watch me do nothing, and, in a show of camaraderie, they do nothing.

Except when I cry. When I cry - even silently - 12 year old Kevvie lifts her head. She doesn’t hear it, she feels it, and it rouses her from a deep, old-dog sleep. With great effort, she hauls her big, old-dog body onto her failing hips, then limps across the floor to sit beside me and rest her head on my leg. She comforts me with her compassion. Three year old Ripley also feels it. She abandons her feet-wiggling dreams of wily squirrels and tasty moles to jump onto the sofa beside me. She rests her head on my other leg. Her effort is as strenuous as Kevvie’s. She struggles to keep every muscle of her body still while she gazes up at my face. She knows this is the only way to send the healing vibrations of her wagging stub directly to me. She comforts me with her clowning.

They don’t care whether I’m a cop or not. They both reach up with long pink tongues to take away my tears. They stay after I stop crying. They stay until I shoo them away.

I don’t deserve this love. Or do I?

Romeo – “Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace, thou talk’st of nothing.”
Mercutio – “True, I talk of dreams, which are the children of an idle mind.”

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

The Milestone

I was never quite sure when it would happen.

As a child, I always thought it would be the day I got married. At other times, I assumed it would be the first time I was intimate with a man.

But it wasn’t.

And it always changed as I got older.

At one time, I believed it would be when I got my first apartment. Then I absolutely knew that it would be the day I graduated from Army basic training.

It wasn’t.

Perhaps it would be when I accepted my first “real” job. Or the first time I made a decision based on what I needed rather than what I wanted. Maybe it would be the day that I signed the papers on my first house.

It wasn’t.

Not only did it keep changing, it became more and more elusive. The day eventually did arrive. It arrived without fanfare but I knew it when I saw it.

It was the day that my mother asked me to help her change the dressing on her breast cancer surgery incisions.

That was the day that I realized that I was a grown up.

There have been many times in my life when I’ve passed a milestone, when I’ve decided that the person I was yesterday had been a child, and that the person going into tomorrow would be an adult. Yet, each milestone was replaced by another, and another, making me wonder exactly when the innocence and dependence of childhood ended and the wisdom and confidence of adulthood took over. Making me wonder exactly when the music changed, when the bunny hop faded into a waltz.

That day in my mother’s bedroom, as I lifted the layers of gauze from her bare midriff, I saw my past and my future entwined. My past - a rebellious, inquisitive child - sat at my feet. My future - a poised, independent adult - stood by my shoulder. The child gazed up at her mother, admiring the strength and character of the woman who had guided her, loved her, and protected her. The adult gazed down at her mother, admiring the strength and character of the woman she planned to guide, love and protect.

The little girl of my past and the confident woman of my future touched fingers as I gently applied a fresh bandage to my mother’s body.

The child wept for her loss of innocence. The adult accepted her new responsibilities.

Yet no scepter was passed.

In that moment, I understood that there is no point when my childhood will end and my adulthood will begin.

In that moment, it was clear. It was clear that my past and my future will always dance together. It was clear that a child will always be behind the adult, urging her to play with one more puppy, and that an adult will always be present to remind the child not to spend her last few pennies on candy. It was clear that the child who trusts strangers will be protected by the adult who understands danger, and that the adult who mourns a death will be comforted by the child who understands nightmares.

And it was an encouraging thought. It was encouraging to know that I can still climb trees, and lie on the grass watching clouds take the shapes of animals, and stick my finger into the frosting on my brother’s birthday cake. It was encouraging to know that I can make my own money, and travel abroad alone, and forgive people who make me cry. It was encouraging to know that I don’t have to give up my past to attain my future. It was encouraging to know that there is a balance in everything.

The challenge comes in maintaining the balance, in keeping my past alive in my future and in reminding my future of my past. The challenge is to assign some wariness to the naiveté and to give some experience to an impulse.

But I like challenges and I think I have his one covered.

Just this week, I watched The Lion King while I balanced my checkbook, ate Oreo cookies with an expensive Porto, and wore my feetie pajamas while I did my taxes.

Maybe next week, I’ll share some caviar with my dogs.

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

Do You Wear A Seat Belt?

Imagine someone throws a ball to you from across the room. You catch it. Easy, right? Now imagine you’re at a batting range where the balls are thrown in excess of 30 mph. Can you catch that? Would you want to? How about a textbook at that speed? Or a handbag? What about your infant, toddler or teenager? Don’t laugh. Whatever is not tied down will become a missile inside your car if you are involved in a car accident. And that includes you.

Items and people that are restrained move with the car – away from the point of impact. Items and people that are not restrained move toward the impact, and keep moving until the energy from the collision is dissipated. That can’t be good. Think of the most incredible, most frightening amusement park ride – without any amusement.

A car accident takes only seconds from start to stop. Count 1-hippopotamus, 2- hippopotamus, 3- hippopotamus, 4- hippopotamus, 5- hippopotamus. Okay, here’s what happened while you counted. The three stages of an impact:

Stage one is vehicle hits vehicle. Since we know that you are a good driver who would never cause an accident, we’ll assume that another vehicle came out of nowhere and struck yours.

Stage two is you hitting something. Immediately upon the first point of impact, you and everyone else in the car smash into each other and into the hard interior of your vehicle. Think you could brace yourself? Remember how hard it was to imagine catching a ball at 30 mph?

Stage three is you hitting, well, you. Don’t get queasy on me now. Stage three is when your internal organs collide with your hard skeletal structure. Ick.

Now you have two options, although you don’t actually get to choose. You get to go up, or you get to go down.

Up may sound good to some. Those would be the people who insist that being thrown clear of an accident is the best way to live. They apparently don’t know that being thrown clear increases the extent and severity of your injuries.

Up is bad.

Up means that your chest and stomach hit the steering wheel, usually contorting that hard circle into a unique form of modern art.

Up means that your head strikes the windshield. If you are going less than 12 mph, you may only cause the windshield to spider. But when was the last time you went 12 mph? Backing out of your driveway? So, once your head strikes the windshield, the windshield is going to break. Ouch. If you don’t completely clear the windshield and its debris, double ouch. If you do go through, you can be dragged or crushed by any of the vehicles involved in the accident, including yours. Ouch, ouch, ouch! Remember, the energy of a crash needs to dissipate – and it may dissipate right over your body.

Well, what about down? Down seems good. Down seems safe. On TV, people fling themselves to the ground to escape fire, flying objects and random gunfire.

Guess what? Down is bad.

Down means that your legs and knees smash into the very solid surface under the dash.

Down means that your chest and throat slam into the steering wheel.

Down means you leave some teeth imbedded in the steering column.

Down means being pinned beneath the steering wheel in that tiny space where your feet go. Pinned in a heap with your face beneath the gas pedal and the brake pedal in your mouth. Pinned until the jaws of life can peel the car off of you like a big tuna fish can. And I mean tuna fish – no sardines here – you may feel like a sardine squished into a can with no room to breath but don’t forget about the third impact in a crash. Your internal organs have all sloshed around and mangled into, well, tuna fish.

Down means broken kneecaps, broken ribs, internal injuries, trauma to your throat, and a very expensive relationship with your dentist.

But, for you optimists, there will probably be none of the severe brain injuries that result from going “up”. Of course, down generally means that you’ll be conscious and more cognizant of your pain.

So, is it hard to imagine why there is a death attributed to a car accident every 13 minutes? Or why a person is injured every 9 seconds? Or why there are mandatory seat belt laws? Do you think that you have a right to choose whether to wear your seat belt? Not if I have to scrape you off the hood of your car or pry you from under the dash. Not if my family members have to witness the sight of your child catapulting through the windshield.

Eighty percent of accidents happen at speeds of less than 40 mph and within 25 miles of your home. Can you catch a ball thrown at 40 mph? Would you like to be a ball thrown at 40 mph? Forty mph is the same as a drop from a five story building. So, choose your poison. Do you want to be dropped from the 4th floor? The 3rd? Or would you rather stay on the 5th floor until someone shows up with a ladder? You can wait with me. I’ll be sitting there having coffee because I know I can’t fly, and deceleration trauma (the fourth, and final, stage of an impact) is not pretty.

There is a story – probably an urban myth but potent just the same – that tells of a traffic stop for speeding. When the officer discovered that the driver had not seat belted his child, he wrote the father a ticket. After angrily strapping his son in and crumpling the ticket in his fist, the father drove off. A few minutes later, the same officer arrived at the scene of a fatal accident. The father was dead and the now bloody ticket was on the floor – but the little boy was alive because the officer had forced the man to obey the law, and protect his child.

It comes down to this. Modern cars are made to protect lives. The passenger area is fortified to withstand crashes. If you do not secure yourself within that area, you will be severely injured or die. If you do not secure your children, you will maim or kill them.

Seat belts and safety seats prevent and lessen injuries. If you wear a seat belt, you will go neither up nor down. You will be exercising a third option. This one is a choice. You will not collide with the interior of the car or with other passengers in the car. You will not be ejected or thrown about the interior like a rag doll.

Seat belts reduce injury by spreading the force of the impact over the strong areas of the body. They keep the wearer in sync with the motion of the car, the protective shell, rather than submitting the person to a rather harsh lesson in physics. And they position the wearer properly for the supplemental protection – the airbag.

It’s easy to wear your seat belt. It’s smart to wear your seat belt. Just do it.

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

*** This essay is copyrighted material;
no reproduction or excerpting is permitted without written consent
from Jill Wragg (JKWragg@yahoo.com) ***

A Hero

People often ask about my work as a police officer. Recently, someone asked me if I’d ever saved anyone’s life, you know, in a heroic way. Yes, I was a hero. I saved a life. And I bagged a dangerous fugitive in the process.

It was a dark and dreary night when the dispatcher asked me to assist a wheelchair-bound woman – with an escaped pet snake. Although I’ve never been afraid of snakes, I’ve never wanted one for a pet. I barely remembered taking a fifteen minute snake catching class many years earlier. I had graduated by successfully snaring a fairly small rattlesnake that wasn’t exactly good-natured but was probably accustomed to human handling. The memory didn’t fill me with confidence.

The fugitive’s name was Boo. He’d escaped from his cage, trashed the front bedroom and overturned two bird cages. The parakeet got away by flying into the living room. Smedley the cockatiel wasn’t so lucky. I considered closing the door and offering the number of a reputable wildlife service but I knew the woman wouldn’t sleep while Boo was loose, even behind a closed door.

I confirmed that Boo was not any sort of viper before I peeked around the door jam. All I saw was a snake head the size of my fist. It was attached to a body as big around as my thigh and twice as long as my car. It was also about seven feet off the ground and barely two feet from my face. Boo had climbed to the top of a highboy dresser. He was king of the room. His kingdom was in ruin. The top of his cage was on the floor. A glass table with an aluminum frame was toppled. Plants were capsized. Potting soil was smeared into the carpet. Knick-knacks were strewn about. The bedding was in disarray. One curtain was pulled from its rod. The only thing left standing was a medium sized fern on a tripod.

Boo swung his head at me, opened his mouth and hissed. I was hesitant until I noticed the telltale bulge in Boo’s mid-section. Poor Smedley! The brute! Preying on an innocent bird! Even though my job was to protect and serve, I decided to avenge Smedley.

Whether he liked it or not, Boo was going to go back to his cage. This was war.

Snake catching is a delicate art. The trick is to gain control by pinning its head down. In snake catching class, we’d used wire coat hangers. I twisted one into a snare and slid it over Boo’s head. He bent it like it was string. When he started to retreat down the back of the dresser, I grabbed his body. Every time I pulled him back a foot, he pulled me forward two. We were playing push-me-pull-me, and I was losing. His head came around the left side of the dresser. He glared at me. It was a telepathic moment. I let go. When his whole body disappeared, I leaned over the potted fern to peer cautiously around the right side of the dresser. I jumped about four feet when I heard a chirp inches from my ear. I parted the fern’s leaves. There, standing perfectly still, wide-eyed with terror, was Smedley.

I was elated. Smedley lives! I held out my index finger, “Come with me if you want to live.” Smedley stepped onto my finger like a gentleman and sank his beak into my hand like a cad. I flinched and he flew. In his panic, he crashed into the wall and started to fall behind the dresser. It was like a slow motion movie scene. I stumbled across the room, arms outstretched. I caught Smedley just as Boo’s head popped up. But Boo was too late. I carried Smedley from the battlefield. Then I doubled up the coat hanger and returned to finish the job I’d come to do.

Boo had emerged to hunt for Smedley. The last three feet of him remained under the dresser. The first three feet of him rose up to greet me. The rest of him just stayed on the floor in an impressive show of bulk. I slid my reinforced coat hanger over his head. He bent it, seeming to laugh at my silliness. It was my turn to retreat. When I backed up, my foot struck the sturdy aluminum frame of the overturned table. An epiphany! I grabbed the sturdy frame and used it to pin Boo’s head down. I resisted the urge to step on it. I didn’t want to be accused of using excessive force.

I grabbed him behind his head. He was too heavy to carry but, once caught, he was obliging, as some criminals can be. He assisted me by lifting himself off the floor and coiling himself around my arm. My left hand held his head securely. His body held my right hand and arm securely. We were at an impasse.

That’s when I realized that I couldn’t reach my police radio, but it didn’t matter. By the time help arrived, I would have been wrapped in a snake like Mowgli from The Jungle Book. I managed to wriggle my arm out of my jacket sleeve and dump most of Boo onto the floor. A struggle ensued with me trying to elude capture and him trying to elude imprisonment but I was able to drag him across the room and stuff him, coil by coil, into his cage.

Smedley was safe and Boo was incarcerated. My work was finished. I drove off into a night that seemed a little less dreary, a hero in every sense of the word.

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

A Lack of Training

“Put your hands where I can see them.” The words slid off my tongue as easily as when I was wearing a badge. Yet two police academies and hundreds of hours of supplemental instruction have not properly prepared me for this new assignment. There are holes in my training. No one taught me that an eight month old baby can consume 4 oz of milk at 10:00 and expel 5 oz of poop at 10:05. They explained how to get blood out of my shirt but not blue yogurt. I learned how to break down and reassemble an M-16 with my eyes closed but the nomenclature of strollers and car seats is beyond my ken. There weren’t any classes on how to explain that one can’t go from the first rung on the jungle gym ladder to the third or fourth without leaving a nasty mark. There weren’t any refresher courses in nursery rhymes.

And I certainly wasn’t trained to deal with this scenario. The crime was couscous throwing. The perpetrator was a 13 month old girl. But retreating wasn’t an option.

So, I did what cops do – Improvise. Adapt. Overcome.

“Now don’t move,” I said as I picked grains from my hair with one hand and reached for baby wipes with the other, silently wishing that the restraints of a high chair were as effective as handcuffs. I was beginning to realize that I should have brushed up on my self defense skills before I traded my shiny silver “Officer Wragg” name tag for the less formal moniker of “Miss Jill”, Assistant Preschool Teacher. But I thought I’d be okay. After all, age and treachery do triumph over youth and skill, and I have food in my refrigerator that’s older than most of these kids.

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used as a reason for a time-out. You have the right to attempt to win me over by making cute faces or hugging me. You have the right to formulate some sort of apology for misbehaving before punishment is determined. If you are not able to formulate an apology, you have the right to sulk for the duration of your time-out. If you decide to begin screaming now, your time-out will commence immediately. You have the right to stop screaming at any time in order to make amends for your previous behavior. Do you understand your rights? Are you willing to apologize now so you can go play with your friends?

Still clutching a fistful of couscous, my assailant looked at me as though I was speaking Serbo-Croatian. Sighing, I remembered the police chief’s advice that children under age 7 cannot form criminal intent, and his offer of fraternal support, “Call if you need back-up.” I looked around for a phone.

Give me fighting drunks any day. Alas, my adventures in babysitting had only just begun. When I got the news that I’d been hired, I practiced by dressing a cabbage patch doll in a preemie diaper, but I stood it on its head to do it so I practiced some more. Diapers aside, I expected the job to be similar to police work and I was excited about that. I wanted to feel like an authority figure again, serving the public and telling people what to do. I wanted to prevent crimes by stopping wild gangs of marauding toddlers from terrorizing the neighborhood. I was eager to perform traffic control tasks, even if it was just on potty breaks. And I was accustomed to being pulled, pushed, fallen on, yelled at, and confronted by people who cry to get out of their societal responsibilities.

I looked forward to breaking up fights, chasing escapees, managing unruly groups, and dealing with attitude problems. I expected to execute searches (into diapers) to identify improvised explosive devices and hazardous materials. I knew I’d have opportunities to issue verbal warnings and citations for bad behavior, and to perform safety inspections on plastic motor vehicles.

Yup, it is similar, right down to eating donuts, drinking coffee and getting puked on. Even the disputes mirror the grown-up conflicts I’d handled on patrol.

“He took my car.”

“She hit me with a phone.”

“He bit me.”

“Whaaaaaaa…..(sob)”

I initiate most of my investigations in the same manner, too. “Hey kid, assume the position. Do you have anything on your person that will hurt me or anyone else? Sticky lollipops? Peanut butter? Diarrhea?”

But there is one big difference. The people I monitor are glad to see me. The only thing better than hearing a room full of children shout my name when I walk through the door is catching the various bodies as they hurl themselves at me for hugs. Heck, I even forgave them for inflicting me with strep during my first week.

Emerson wrote that the earth laughs in flowers. I’ve learned that the earth laughs in children.

Now if I could just get that Barney song out of my head.

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

Lt. Paul Mitchell - "Big Daddy"

Paul Mitchell hasn’t been home for 51 days. His co-workers saw him leave work at 9am. He didn’t call his wife to tell her he’d be late. He hasn’t called his two daughters to tell them he loves them. He hasn’t shown up at any of his friends’ houses to help them with home repairs or to make dump runs. He hasn’t been to church. He hasn’t walked over to his Mom’s house to ask if she needs anything. His garage door business has been idle.

No one ever thought this would happen. Paul always comes home.

On the morning of September 11th, New York City Fire Lieutenant Paul Mitchell finished his scheduled night shift at Engine 5 in Manhattan. He was on his way home when planes struck the Twin Towers. He was off duty. He could have joined all the people who streamed over the city’s bridges and waterways to escape the horror on the Mall. But he was different from them. Paul was a 14 year veteran of FDNY. Paul turned around and went back.

He stopped at his old firehouse, Ladder 110, and rode with the day shift to the World Trade Center. They were glad to have him. Things had always turned out well when “Big Daddy” had ridden with them. He was a 6’3”, 250 lb smoke eater with hands like bear paws, an experienced “jake” who ruthlessly drilled the rookies on safety techniques. He rode Ladder 110 to the World Trade Center with guys he’d die for. He was one of the answers to the prayers of thousands of civilians fleeing the towers. His was one of the faces that gave them hope. He was inside when the towers collapsed. He’d answered his last call on the truck he’d ridden to his first call.

Paul’s wife Maureen and their girls, Jennifer and Christine, waited a long time for him to come home. They waited when he was late from work. They waited when they learned he’d gone into the Towers. They waited for the man who could smash through doors and climb into smoke filled buildings to step from the ashes and rubble alive. They waited when officials declared the rescue mission a recovery mission. They waited a week, two weeks, a month. They wait- ed for someone to find him. They waited for someone to find his boots, or his ring, or any proof that he really had been there, and that he really is gone.

They waited a long time.

Paul’s and Maureen’s 21st wedding anniversary was November 1st. Paul’s wake was also November 1st. Hundreds of people stood in line to comfort Maureen, the girls and Paul’s mother and sisters. Paul would have been proud of the way his family greeted every mourner with a hug and a thank you, and of the way they tried to comfort the people who didn’t know what to say.

On November 2nd, All Soul’s Day, two ladder trucks faced off in the street outside the church where Paul worshipped. A 20 foot American flag was hung between the extended ladders. Hundreds of firefighters and cops, some from places like Maryland and L.A. County, stood in formation as bagpipers led the procession into the church yard. Hundreds of civilians stood silently. Only the flags of the honor guards moved. Paul’s family walked a corridor of firefighters to enter the church where they would say goodbye. There was no casket. There was no need. Paul will not rest in a Staten Island cemetery where his family can plant flowers. Paul will rest where God buried him, where he and his colleagues answered one last alarm and thousands of desperate prayers.

Inside the church, Paul’s friends and family gave up any hope that remained after 51 days. Some of Paul’s buddies couldn’t be there because they are still with him. Their wives have been waiting, too. Like Maureen, they will have an American flag and a firefighter’s helmet to add to their memories. They will have a closet full of uniforms that won’t get worn.

Outside the church, the weather-proof speakers were drowned out by conversation as old friends embraced and new friendships were formed. Cops and firefighters leaned on fire trucks draped with flowers, drank coffee and told war stories. It wasn’t disrespectful. It was necessary. There have been too many funerals, too many formations and too many sad days. One man has attended 92 funerals. He has a bumper sticker on his truck that reads, “FDNY – Still the Greatest Job on Earth”. Paul would agree.

Paul was going to retire in four years. He was going to move to Cape Cod to start a garage door business, drink Reserve St. Martin wine, add to his collection of fire history books, play golf, hang out with his buddies on the local fire departments and spend summers with his girls when they were on break from Boston College. Maybe he’d coach basketball and organize games for the neighborhood kids. But that dream is over. Paul was 46 years old when he answered that last bell. He did his job. He gave up his dreams. He gave up his life. He didn’t want to. He didn’t have to. But he was Lt Paul Mitchell, so he did.

Members of two Cape Cod fire departments (Dennis and Harwich) traveled to New York to attend the memorial services for Lt Paul Mitchell, a long time friend.

The Dennis Fire Department has changed the number of its ladder truck from Ladder 108 to Ladder 110 in his memory.

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com.

Rest in Peace

"The wicked flee when no man pursueth: but the righteous are as bold as a lion."

- Proverbs 28:1

It was probably the most difficult assignment they'd been given in their careers. They stood in the rain for hours to defend the honor and memory of their friends and colleagues. At midnight, the last two members of the honor guard came to attention. They saluted the memorial wreath and slowly marched away. In their path walked a lone piper, playing "Amazing Grace" to the names engraved on the wall, names that seem to run together in their urgency to be read. The last notes of the bagpipe clung to the misted branches of the trees that protect the wall. The silence that followed was fitting. Observers began to disperse when a lone police siren sounded in the distance.

Midnight May 15 was a somber time. The dismissal of the guard and removal of the wreath marked the official conclusion of the annual National Peace Officers' Memorial Week at the National Law Enforcement Officers Memorial in Washington, D.C.

This was the first year I attended the services. I was there for my friends who had given everything they had in the service to their communities. Françoise and her partner Piet were killed in the line of duty in August 1999. Brad was killed in December 2000. Philippe died in March 2003.

But I was also there for officers I didn't know. I was there for the 16,000 US officers whose names are on the wall, for the hundreds of officers who died in the line of duty throughout the world last year, for the 20,000 officers who were in D.C. with me, and for all the police officers on duty everywhere in the world. I was there for all the fallen officers whose countries don’t honor them with a Memorial Wall and an annual Candlelight Vigil.

The Memorial is simple, similar in composition to the better-known Vietnam Memorial. It consists of two pathways guarded at each entrance by bronze sculptures of adult lions, one male and one female, protecting their cubs. The statues are not quite right. They imply the strength of a lion protecting its own, but police officers don't protect only their own. Police officers protect strangers, too, and people of different races and religions, and even people they despise. Police officers are lions protecting zebras, and mice, and even poachers.

I spent several hours at the wall. I met members of the foreign departments who traveled across an ocean to remember their comrades the way they should be remembered, amidst a sea of uniformed officers.

I found the names of local cousins who died in the line of duty. I found the name of a female officer who was killed the exact day that I raised my right hand and swore to protect and serve, no matter what the cost.

I left an insignia pin for a foreign officer who was overwhelmed by what he’d seen and heard during a long career on the streets. He killed himself on duty in the station house with his service weapon.

I spoke to a widow who was pregnant with their sixth child when her husband was ambushed and killed on patrol.

I hugged an officer who had responded with his partner to a 911 call. The female caller shot them both as they tried to wrestle her assailant from her home. He returned fire to save his own life, killing the woman before cradling his dying partner in his arms.

I met the mother of an officer who was killed by his friend with point-blank gunfire in a training accident.

I cried with the colleague of an officer who died on a dirty sidewalk before his murderer could perpetrate a final insult, shooting the dead officer through the badge.

Despite all the tragedy that brought people to Washington last week, there was plenty of camaraderie. The shared losses made instant friends of total strangers. Officers and civilian family members shared stories and advice that helped heal some gaping wounds. I made some new friends with a group of officers who invited me to their "hero toast." After dinner, we sat around the table taking turns toasting fallen friends. We laughed when one toast went awry, suggesting we drink a shot for a friend who'd been shot. The people at the next table might not have seen the humor but if they had ever been cops, or soldiers, or firefighters, they would know that everything is funny - because it has to be.

We can't all be heroes; some of us have to sit on the curb and clap as they go by. But we can all support our heroes. Imagine a day when all police officers are on vacation. It might not make too much of a difference in your small circle, in your small town, but society as a whole would crumble.

Some people think it's wrong to honor such a small group of people when so many ordinary people die every day. I argue that it's common to die for nothing. Those who die for something are heroes.

Françoise, Piet, Brad and Philippe, Rest in peace, your colleagues have the watch.

"In valor there is hope."
-Tacitus

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts. She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

Confessions of a Police Officer

Dear Citizens, Neighbors, Friends and Family,

My name is Jill and I am a cop. That means that the pains and joys of my personal life are often muted by my work. I resent the intrusion but I confuse my self with my job almost as often as you do. The label "police officer" creates a false image of who I really am. Sometimes I feel like I'm floating between two worlds. My work is not just protecting and serving. It's preserving that buffer that exists in the space between what you think the world is, and what the world really is.

My job isn't like television. The action is less frequent, and more graphic. It is not exhilarating to point a gun at someone. Pooled blood has a disgusting metallic smell and steams a little when the temperature drops. CPR isn't an instant miracle and it's no fun listening to an elderly grandmother's ribs break while I keep her heart beating. I'm not flattered by your curiosity about my work. I don't keep a record of which incident was the most frightening, or the strangest, or the bloodiest, or even the funniest. I don't tell you about my day because I don't want to share the images that haunt me.

But I do have some confessions to make:

Sometimes my stereo is too loud. Andrea Bocelli's voice makes it easier to forget the wasted body of the young man who died alone in a rented room because his family feared the stigma of AIDS. Beethoven's 9th symphony erases the sight of the nurses who sobbed as they scrubbed layers of dirt and slime from a neglected 2-year-old's skin. The Rolling Stones' angry beat assures me that it was ignorance that drove a young mother to draw blood when she bit her toddler on the cheek in an attempt to teach him not to bite.

Sometimes I set a bad example. I exceeded the speed limit on my way home from work because I had trouble shedding the adrenalin that kicked in when I discovered that the man I handcuffed during a drug raid was sitting on a loaded 9mm pistol.

Sometimes I seem rude. I was distracted and forgot to smile when you greeted me in the store because I was remembering the anguished, whispered confession of a teenager who pushed away his drowning brother to save his own life.

Sometimes I'm not as sympathetic as you'd like. I'm not concerned that your 15-year-old daughter is dating an 18-year-old because I just comforted the parents of a young man who slashed his own throat while they slept in the next bedroom. I was terse on the phone because I resented the burden of having to weigh the value of two lives when I was pointing my gun at an armed man who kept begging me to kill him. I laugh when you cringe away from the mess in your teen's room because I know the revulsion of feeling a heroin addict's blood trickling toward an open cut on my arm. If I was silent when you whined about your overbearing mother it's because I really wanted to tell you that I spoke to one of our high school friends today. I found her mother slumped behind the wheel of her car in a tightly closed garage. She had dressed in her best outfit before rolling down the windows and starting the engine.

On the other hand, if I seem totally oblivious to the blood on my uniform, or the names people call me, or the hateful editorials, it's because I am remembering the lessons my job has taught me.

I learned not to sweat the small stuff. Grape juice on the beige sofa and puppy pee on the oriental carpet don't faze me because I know what arterial bleeding and decaying bodies can do to one's decor.

I learned when to shut out the world and take a mental health day. I skipped your daughter's 4th birthday party because I was thinking about the six children under the age of 10 whose mother left them unattended to go out with a friend. When the 3-year-old offered the dog the milk from her cereal bowl, the dog attacked her, tearing open her head and staining the sandbox with blood. The little girl's siblings had to pry her head out of the dog's jaws - twice.

I learned that everyone has a lesson to teach me. Two mothers engaged in custody battles taught me not to judge a book by its cover. The teenage mother on welfare mustered the strength to refrain from crying in front of her worried child while the well-dressed, upper-class mother literally played tug of war with her toddler before running into traffic with the shrieking child in her arms.

I learned that nothing given from the heart is truly gone. A hug, a smile, a reassuring word, or an attentive ear can bring an injured or distraught person back to the surface, and help me refocus.

And I learned not to give up, ever! That split second of terror when I think I have finally engaged the one who is young enough and strong enough to take me down taught me that I have only one restriction: my own mortality.

One week in May has been set aside as Police Memorial Week, a time to remember those officers who didn't make it home after their shift. But why wait? Take a moment to tell an officer that you appreciate her work. Smile and say "Hi" when he's getting coffee. Bite your tongue when you start to tell a "bad cop" story. Better yet, find the time to tell a "good cop" story. The family at the next table may be a cop's family.

Nothing given from the heart is truly gone. It is kept in the hearts of the recipients. Give from the heart. Give something back to the officers who risk everything they have.

Jill Wragg is a retired Police Officer from Massachusetts. She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

*** This essay is copyrighted material;
no reproduction or excerpting is permitted without written consent
from Jill Wragg (JKWragg@yahoo.com) ***

A Lost Friend (Une Amie Perdue)

Last year as my friend Amy and I sat watching the widely televised funeral of a police officer, she asked, “Why do you cops make such a big deal out of this?” Her question surprised me. Why indeed? Was there a need for all the posturing? For all the media attention? Wasn’t that officer merely a father, or son, or husband, or brother? What right did hundreds of police officers, total strangers, have to mourn him as their own? Is it really more tragic when a death occurs in the line of duty?

We officers impose on the family’s right and need to mourn privately and quietly. The hype of our united presence forces the family’s names and faces into the newspapers and onto the television.

With our splendid dress uniforms and elaborate ceremonies, we add hours and days, even weeks, of public mourning to the family’s grief. Then we make pilgrimages to Washington to salute the memorial and bring home pencil etchings of the officers’ names. Is the purpose behind all of these displays as my friend thought - simply a manifestation of “there, but for the grace of God, go I”?

I often wondered. Until August 27th.

On August 27th, I reported to work and found a fax in my mailbox. It was from Europe and I read it eagerly, expecting a wedding announcement from my dear friends, Françoise and Eric, in Belgium. But the fax was from Eric’s friend and the second paragraph stopped my heart. I felt weak. It read, “Your friend Françoise is dead on patrol August 1.”

Those words stood out from all the others as though they’d been written in blood. The phrase “dead on patrol” ripped a hole in my heart that will never heal. I was overcome by an emotion I’d never experienced - complete and total anguish. The pain became worse when I learned that Eric had been the first to the scene where she died. He bears that burden because he too, is a police officer.

Like every person who has died, Françoise was beautiful - a beloved daughter, a cherished love, a special friend. But she was also a cop. She was a person who cared enough to step into a uniform and toe the thin blue line every day. Like all the others, her death was a waste and a tragedy. Unlike all the others, her death was a plague on society. Her dedication to humanity, her willingness to stand between good and evil was the monster that killed her. Françoise didn’t just die. She died because she was a police officer.

Police officers and friends,
Françoise Kiekeman, left, of the Uccle, Belgium Police
and Jill Wragg of the Yarmouth (MA) Police Department.

Suddenly, I understood the answer to Amy’s question because I was not just a friend mourning a friend. I was a cop mourning a cop, and it made everything different. I lost my balance.

I couldn’t concentrate at work. Every time I put on my uniform, the pain in my chest was overwhelming. I saw her at every traffic stop, at every domestic, at every accident. A mere glimpse of a blue uniform would spark tears. I left my vest in the locker room because I knew hers had not saved her life. I stood in the rain next to my patrol car and cried. I ran a red light with a handcuffed prisoner in the car. At home, I awoke drenched in sweat from dreams that re-enacted her death with me as a helpless witness. Every day was a new battle not to quit, not to give up. I grieved so deeply, I thought I’d explode.

The doubts that Amy had planted the year before vanished. I accepted the custom, the public display, the obligation, of mourning a fellow officer by draping my badge. And when I received the sometimes embarrassed condolences from my macho co-workers, I understood their motives. These men who normally scoffed at emotion and laughed off pain recognized, felt and shared mine. Their words, and their silences, showed me that it didn’t matter that they hadn’t known Françoise. And I understood that it wasn’t our own mortality that we mourned. It was the loss of another person in uniform. The loss of another piece of us. A link had been wrenched from the chain so the remaining links stretched a little more to come together and close the gap while hoping to maintain the integrity of the person who had gone.

In December, I made my pilgrimage. I returned to Belgium to honor Françoise’s life and death.

Belgian police officer
Françoise Kiekeman,
who was killed in the line of duty.

As a friend, I paid my respects in a grave yard filled with old people. As a cop, I accepted one of her epaulet insignia in her honor.

As a friend, I spent time with Eric and with Françoise’s family, comforting them with the knowledge that she was not alone and not forgotten. As a cop, I sought out photographs of the hundreds of officers and K-9 teams who gathered to mourn her, hoping to comfort myself with the knowledge that she was not alone and not forgotten.

As a friend, I strolled through the streets and parks where she and I had walked, laughing and talking about our lives. As a cop, I rode patrol with Eric and with Françoise’s colleagues.

As a friend, I allowed myself to be exposed to the media’s sensational front page photos of her bloodied patrol car, and I was angry. As a cop, I watched the video of the live news coverage that showed her fellow officers mingling around a covered body on the street near her patrol car, and I vomited.

As a friend, I helped maintain the simple beauty of her final resting place by brushing aside leaves and replacing dead flowers. As a cop, I averted my gaze to avoid seeing her name engraved in stone at the entrance to her precinct.

As a friend, I brought a Christmas tree decorated with teddy bears and a poem to the cemetery. As a cop, I left my draped badge on her headstone.

As a friend, I cried. As a cop, I cried.

It’s a new year now. I welcomed it in Europe with other foreign colleagues who understood my moment of silence when I acknowledged to myself that Françoise will never spend another New Year’s Eve waiting until midnight to kiss Eric, or patrolling the streets while the members of her community celebrate without a thought for the officers who keep them safe.

Françoise is gone but my questions have been answered.

Is it fair for police officers to mourn one of their own?

Yes.

Siblings, parents, and friends share a special bond that comes from familiarity, from love. Police officers, strangers or not, also share a special bond. It is a bond of mutual respect and understanding. The bond is a thin thread when compared to the ropes that bind families but it is strong. It is not the shared blood that creates the bond. It is the spilled blood, and the fact that the monster that killed Françoise lives inside all of us, whether we acknowledge it or not.

And is it more painful, more tragic, for a death to occur in the line of duty?

Yes.

Police officers may go to work expecting violence but we also expect what nurses, and zookeepers, and waiters expect. We expect to return home after each shift to hug our spouses, to phone our mothers, to take our kids bowling, and to let the dog out. One failure to return home weakens the chain and strengthens the monster.

The adage is true - when a police officer dies, a part of society dies. I know a part of me died on August 1st.

Au revoir, Françoise, et bon voyage.
Merci beaucoup pour la lumière du soleil.
Je t’embrasse tres forte. Bisous, Jill.

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

*** This piece is copyrighted and can be used with permission only. ***