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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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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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 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

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.

Françoise Kiekeman and Jill Wragg (1995) 

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 (1997)

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. ***

Yarmouth Police Department 

Chief Frank Frederickson

Steven Xiarhos

Sean Gannon

@yarmouthpolice

http://www.yarmouth.ma.us/