Scissors

"We heard the doorknob turn. The guy was outside our room, yelling. A couple of the guys armed themselves with scissors." An Arapahoe High School student commenting on 850 KOA.

The radio traffic on Metronet sounded like a drill, until the urgency in the dispatcher's voices came through. Asking for more units. Advising where the command post had been set up. A rally point. Ambulances. "The shooter is down." "Arapahoe, this is State. Confirm the shooter is down?" "State, this is Arapahoe. Affirm."

Copycat crimes are not unheard of, and we are all trained to prepare for multiple assailants at multiple locations. We headed for our schools. Additional information poured in - single shooter, one teacher his target, the lockdown procedures and active shooter protocols seemed to work.

I take my Kevlar helmet out of my bag and set it on the seat beside me.  Fortunately today my only role is to wave and represent. Farther south, my brothers and sisters are taking care of business. A fifteen year old girl fights for her life, rescued by officers running toward the sound of the shotgun blasts. This is why we practice; why the lockdown drills, why the tabletop exercises.

One year since Sandy Hook.

It's a Jeep Thing

"It defines us, ever reminding us that life never is more precious than this." Moments Like This, Alison Krauss.

Our day began with the morning drive along Florida's Gulf Coast. Usually it was Beth at the wheel, cursing her elders, reminding them that not everyone was retired. We pulled into the parking lot of whatever Naples business employed her. A hug and I was left to my own designs. Exfilling, I headed for breakfast and the beach, driving her Jeep.

I ran errands, I found places to read, or write. The bulk of The Heart of the Matter, what I hope will be my third published novel, was written in places where the Gulf's cool breezes and soft, supple sounds washed over me. I learned the navpoints, became familiar with the streets, all the while driving Beth's Jeep in glorious eighty degree weather.

Counting the fabulous tunes I heard from her CD collection as I motored Florida roadways would be impossible. I acquired a decided admiration for Alison Krauss's voice. Imogen Heap's Hide and Seek played so many times it became synonymous with Beth, Florida and the black
Wrangler I filled with gas.

We visited the mud pits once, meeting her friends for a day of off-road adventure. Several of them found their way into Heart, as much for their multi-purpose way with the F-word as anything. Finally, she would drop me off at the airport and I would wave good bye to the Black Jeep as she drove away.

It made it to Maine somehow, where it shed a side-view mirror on the interstate. Always the worse for wear, the last time I rode in it the muffler was shot, the deafening sound drowning out even our conversation. Sometimes parked, awaiting a part or the attention of a mechanic friend, it seemed always to rise to the occasion. Somehow it survived a post law school trip down the coast to end it's days in St. Petersburg, two hundred thousand miles traveled from the place it was built.

But, it's a jeep thing. Beth sold it to a young man who will strip it down, polish it up and resurrect it. It's only fair.

Larger than Life

"Gentlemen," said Washington, "you will permit me to put on my spectacles, for I have not only grown gray but almost blind in the service of my country."

At first engaged in respectful, passive resistance to injustice. Finally, certain there was no other way he resorted to armed resistance. For Nelson Mandela, he suffered the fate spared Washington and spent nearly thirty years in prison. That he would have emerged bitter, angry and filled with hatred would have been understandable, human. But, like Washington, he had suffered in the service of his country. 

Nelson Mandela's love of country, his message of hope and reconciliation, his desire to see all men and women be treated with respect and dignity regardless of skin color stands as a beacon. He takes his place in history among the greats. 

Said I Wouldn't Call - UPDATED

"I know it's two AM but ain't you still my friend? It's so hard to get you off my mind." Bat McGrath, "The Blue Eagle."
"It's a quarter after one, I'm a little drunk and I need you now." Lady Antebellum, "Need You Now."

Writing.

Cici has had enough. The things she's seen, the jobs she's been asked to do - everything has
changed. She leaves him, them.... The pain of losses contemplated and completed. Fleeing to the mountains she loves, riding her snowboard while her helmet's sound system bathes her in music. Hillary Scott and Charles Kelley weave their voices through Lady A's megahit. On the lift Cici reminds herself that she need not be drunk to crave the sound of his voice one more time....

Outside my door temperatures fall below zero. I'm trying to get the right tone, open Cici's soul to what (I hope) are the hearts of future readers. If she isn't real to them, this scene will seem contrived. "She left him and now she wants him back on her terms. And...?"

Almost forty years ago Bat McGrath wrote and recorded "The Blue Eagle." It was (and is) a ramshackle bar tucked in a small Keuka Lake town. The subject of his song is crying on the "back room phone," spending one more few moments hearing her voice, and imagining holding her again. The song plays on my laptop - several generations removed from the vinyl disk I all but wore out, a lonely Denver transplant.

I learned to play "Need You Now" in the company of my wonderful music teacher. The chords were easy, the key just about right for my old voice. We played it as work, but also as recreation. In it's simplicity..."I'd rather hurt than feel nothing at all."

"I'll understand if you want to go" sings Bat McGrath toward the end of the song. Does Cici really understand why she left? If she calls Kevin, to hear his voice one more time, will he understand when she tells him she has to go?

I don't know. Neither has revealed enough of themselves, even to me.

UPDATE - I'm listening to the acoustic version of Need You Now, embodying an awful longing was missing from the original, polished version. I get it now. I get both of them.

Babe

Noting the passing of Edward "Babe" Heffron, 90, of Philadelphia, PA. A member of the 101st Airborne Band of Brothers, he uttered the words "The real men, the real heroes, are buried over there, or come (sic) home to be buried." My late father uttered those words before they were broadcast as part of the miniseries, having seen the black sands of Iwo Jima close up.

Years ago, my Uncle Jim, Aunt Mary, Cousin Carol and I stopped by a cafe in Bastogne, Belgium. Lunch time, and we took a table toward the rear of the establishment. We chatted after a fabulous morning touring the gorgeous countryside. The proprietor stopped by our table, literally hat in hand. "Americans?" he asked. We answered that we were. Our lunchtime bottle of wine was on him. "Thank you for what you did for us," he said.

Babe Heffron earned those thanks in a cold foxhole not far from where we sat. We bid you farewell, sir. You did your country credit and deserve to be remembered forever.

A Bumper Sticker on my Casket

Me: What did you think when the guy shot at you?
Her: How silly was I, peeking around the corner like that.

He had a .308 rifle, shooting at the police officers who responded to his wife's call for help. Several of them were pinned down, exchanging fire with the suspect as a way of protecting each other. Only after he was wounded by a courageous officer firing a .223 A4 did the gun battle cease. In the midst of the firefight one of our officers asked that a Bearcat - an armored vehicle - be brought up to shield their retreat.

We didn't have one.

I've spent a few minutes this morning exchanging "pleasantries" with someone claiming to be a retired cop. He thinks that local law enforcement's possession of surplus military MRAPs (Mine Resistant Ambush Protected) vehicles represents the end of American liberty. I said dead cops is a pretty steep price to pay for being fashionable. Liberty, he says, used to be fashionable. Who knows, maybe he's onto something.

Officers being pinned down while trying to rescue colleagues happens far too frequently. Without protection from gunfire the attempt is near suicide. Nevertheless, officers rush from cover, or invite the gunman's attention, to save not just friends but citizens on an alarmingly common basis.

Let's not give them the tools to accomplish the rescue. Let's listen to the bumper sticker warriors about how tools, equipment and training equal repression. They know far better than thirty years of having my boots on the ground has afforded me.

UPDATE: This post tells you everything you need to know about the propaganda coming out of some quarters. Read the comments, too. Primers for attacking a police vehicle used to protect officers? Perfect.

Street Cred

"Education is an admirable thing. But it is well to remember from time to time that nothing that is worth knowing can be taught." Oscar Wilde

Unseasonable. 

The word is meaningless in Denver. Snowstorms in June are common, 70's weather every February a right. On the last day of November 2013 the sky shone bright blue, thermometer pushing sixty. Short-sleeved uniform and riding weather. I spent nearly three hours on the patrol bike.

The shopping center surrounding Casa Bonita has seen better days. The lot is rutted and poorly patched. Many of the businesses have closed their doors. It has a sad, slouched appearance, the bright pink restaurant's tower a beacon in an otherwise drab landscape. 

Men and women sit at various points on the sidewalk. Outwardly, they are as drab as their surroundings - threadbare brown coats, soiled jeans and boots with laces knotted like a measuring rope. All have deep furrows on leathery faces, and when they smile.... Gaps. These are the hardcore homeless.