Blast from the Past

I am not sure if past generations have experienced what I, as a father, am now experiencing. Let me explain.

My 4 year old son is coming of the age where his passion for toys has passed from small colorful noise making trinket's to larger, more mainstream, more expensive colorful noise making trinket's. More precisely, he has lept from kiddie toys, to toys that a man of my age has no quams about hopping down in the floor and playing with them, even if the child is not present. (Oh the fun, guilty pleasures of having children!) But the strange thing about the toys that are popular to children at this very moment, are the same toys that were popular say around 20 to 25 years ago. Transformers, Spiderman, Batman, GI Joe, Legos, Star Wars, they are all back for round two, possibly even three, or four.

Ethan has been fixated on Spiderman for about the past year. He loves him. I find him leaping and bounding around the living room singing his goofy little made up Spiderman song, thrusting his arms out with his tiny hands contorted into the webslingers signature "Heavy Metal web shooting sign." Making sounds to let you know that you've just been webbed. His latest interest though has been Star Wars. I being quite the Star Wars geek myself, will duly take pride in teaching my young Padawan Learner in the ways of the force, and let him in on the secret that albeit he's the bad guy, Darth Vader is the freakin' MAN! And so here is the point that I have been building up to.

I bought Ethan a small Lego set for his birthday. It consisted of an Emperial Speederbike and small gun turret coinciding with the opening scene from the Planet Hoth in The Empire Strikes Back. (Oozing with Star Wars geekiness already, eh?) Anyway, curious about the other cool Star Wars stuff Lego has to offer, I took a stroll through their website and happened upon a small jewel that would have the eldest of Star Wars enthusiasts quick to whip out their wallets. A mini replica of the Death Star with small scene that go along with the movies. Yes, MOVIES! There is the Trash Compactor scene, complete with trash, Chewy trying to jam the walls with a long pipe, the compactor monster. (Last line must be said with slight eyebrow raise at the end to emphasize maximum coolness. The detention block scene, meeting table room, the Death Star Cannon, the throne room where the final battle with Luke, Vader, and the Emperor takes place, even a mini Darth Vader TIE Fighter! 24 figures from key characters to droids are included!

Yes, it will be mine!!!! ................Until I took a peek at the price tag on this Nostalgia Laden Pearl. $400. That's right! All you Naboo knowing fools who wish to live out their ultimate dream of running down the corridor to save Leia from the Detention Block need merely to shell out 400 big ones! I'd probably have better luck getting my wife to dress up as the Leia from the Jabba the Hut scene!

On second thought, I'm gonna go dig under the couch cushions!

Dress Blues

I have not worn my uniform in years. My boots have long been neglected a good polishing. My shiny name plate, my awards, my Field Training Officer badge have suffered a long cramped hibernation in my jewelry box along-side expired driver’s license and knives that have been equally dormant.

However tonight, they were woefully given proper attention. With uniform cleaned and pressed, I began to adorn my uniform shirt with badge and banner. Dress blues as some call them, Class A’s as we address them. I painstakingly placed the name plate straight as a razor’s edge above the pocket, followed by my Advanced Peace Officer’s bar and next my Meritorious Service Award. Then one of my painfully favorite adornments, my F.T.O. badge, all top off with a small pin of the Flag of the United States of America. With polish on the belt and boots, all of the pieces are placed in the closet for tomorrow’s event.

While I have not worn the uniform in quite some time, I am not pleased to be wearing it this day. For it is not worn for battle, or duty, or fanfare, or praise. It is worn for honor. To honor a life to short lived, but lived none the less. To show honor for a family member of a blood line that can only be joined by courage, grit, integrity, and trust. And so, classically polished, like our brethren himself, we will honor his life, for it is those like him who have come before us that have made our profession what it is today.

“Blessed are the Peacemakers, for they will be called sons of God.”

A Sudden Change

This last October, I was scheduled to attend a conference in Austin, TX with one of my co-workers. We were given a work vehicle, and were supposed to pick it up from one of the other supervisor’s in our building the Monday before we left. This particular supervisor has worked here for around 30 years, and has contributed in several ways to our department. He is a no-nonsense type of man, but does have a good sense of humor, and is compassionate. The day I went to pick up the keys for our vehicle, I had several days’ growth of beard (which is fine while not working, but if working, is a serious no-no.) He looked at me funny and said, “What’s this shit?” as he rubbed his face. I answered, “Don’t worry Lieutenant, it will be gone before the conference starts,” and shot him a smile. He asked me a couple of other questions about our trip, but still seemed stumped and confused, like he couldn’t get past the beard. After getting the keys, we left for Austin and began our conference, which was a welcome respite from the daily drudges of our office lives.

The next day, I checked my work e-mail from my laptop. There was an e-mail reference this particular supervisor. Apparently sometime that evening, he had been at home, became very dizzy, and fell, slightly injuring himself. He had been taken to the hospital and they were running some tests.

Prior to this, there had been about 3 cases of people that I work with or members of their families having brain aneurisms, and I made the joke to my partner, “My beard freaked out Lt so much he had a brain aneurism!” (‘cause cops are just such dark humored people, we chuckled.) Little did I know.

He was later diagnosed with stage 4 Glioblastoma multiforme, the most common and most aggressive type of primary brain tumor in humans. He and his wife have made trips to the Mayo Clinic in hopes of finding treatment options, however, patients with Glioblastoma usually have a very poor prognosis. Information that we have gotten through e-mails from his family is that the left side of his body is paralyzed. He has returned home, and has begun treatment for the cancer.

This morning an e-mail showed up in everyone’s inbox at our department. It was informing us that he is now under Hospice care. He is alert, drinks well and has somewhat of an appetite, and is comfortable. The hardest part of the e-mail is the comment made by his wife, “I don’t know what kind of time frame we are looking at.”

Which is interesting and one of those “ultimate truth” statements. Here is a man that is one of the hardest workers in our department; a husband, a parent, a community figure, a good man. The last time I saw him, he was in a meeting with other leaders of our department, joking with me, and wishing us a fun and safe trip. In the time it took us to drive to Austin, get settled in to our hotel room and find a bite to eat, his entire world had changed. His entire families world had changed.

I’ve heard of people being diagnosed with terminal illnesses. I’ve heard of horrible accidents happening to people’s loved ones and the affect it had on them. But seeing someone moments before that life altering event, and then feeling the void that is there can be life altering in itself.

It should instill a fear. It should light a fire. It should remind you that even though you accomplish monumental things and are important in the small world in which you have spun for yourself, in the gigantic scheme of the universe and world, you are not so important, and could be gone within a matter of seconds, altered with words spoken, or tests run, or steps taken. So one should be filled with an urgent need to experience things, people, emotions, and places, to say they’ve lived. One should seek to make the experience important, the story of your life important, the differences and impact you have on people, place and thing important. Not to prove to the world how important you are, but to realize how important the world is to you. For it will be here long after we have come and gone.'

What kind of time frame are we dealing with? What does it matter?

Two Days of Fire

This week has turned out to be quite an interesting week. It started off on Sunday watching the Gold Medal round of the Olympic Hockey Tournament. Poor U.S.A. For anyone who watched the game, I'm sure you will agree that it was AWESOME! (That must be said with a falsetto voice and angelic vibrato!) Monday was uneventful, consisting only of work, home, family, and dinner. Followed by bed, which consisted of Shannon and I lying in bed for approximately 8 hours wishing to we could get some sleep, and not wanting to toss and turn for fear the other was asleep. Fun fun.

Then Tuesday came and added some spice (quite literally) to the week. It started with me arriving at work and after about thirty minutes, my partner in the office announced that he and I would be eating at Mike's, which is a small cafeteria in our building. Our culinary expedition would include the famed "Code 3" burger, which, as I would later learn, is the result of a challenge made by people who apparently enjoy eating food that has the flavor of a box of thumb tacks, nails, of charcoal just at the right temperature for cooking your summer barbecue. We bellied up to the bar and placed our order. The cafeteria was not packed, but there were enough people present that soon I felt like I had stepped into the arena and all eyes were on me to see how I handled the beast! We sat next to another co-worker who is some what famous for handling extreme foods and when I asked him how the "Code 3" burger was his reply was "It's warm."

"Oh dear," I thought in my head. "This won't be pretty." Luckily, I had a view of the kitchen, more importantly, direct line of sight to the "Sorcerer's Cauldron" where these hellish culinary demons were being created. Something of this magnitude is not merely made or cooked, but born or created. It took longer for our meals to arrive, which I'm still not sure if it just took that long, or if that's part of the show to make you wriggle and squirm and contemplate your doom. Finally they arrived.

At first glance, this appeared like any other normal burger. Bun, check. Patty, check. Lettuce, tomato, cheese, check. What, no pickles, oh what there they are, wait......what are those. Upon closer inspection, during a partial lettuce-ectomy, I found about 10 fresh sliced of Jalapenos mixed between the cheese and the top of the patty. Oh this will not due. I knew the burger itself was going to be hot, as I had witness repeated shakes from about 3 or 4 bottles that closely resembled Tabasco, Louisiana Hot Sauce, Cholula, and some other reddish liquid I am quite sure was sporting a label with background images of fire, peppers, a skull, a devil with a cheesy grin evil eyes and a pick fork aimed at the mouth of an unsuspecting diner. And after witnessing the "pain marinating" of the patty itself, I felt that the jalepeno's might have been a bit overkill, so they were happily kicked to the curb.

As I began to take the first bite, I felt like a rock star. The crowd went silent, and I could feel the fixed gazes of onlookers. It was either that, of the rush of pain had preceded me even taking the first bite. You the kind pain that at times can make the world go quite save the screaming that is taking place in your mind? Yeah, that kind of pain. The first bite was flavorful. The taste was very good. However about thirty seconds after thinking, "This is good." I followed with, "This is hot, and it hurts." Only said with that raspy, where on God's cool green Earth is my tea sounding voice. Then I realized, this is going to be a long meal.

I settled in to finish of the hell spawned quarter pounder, and finish it I did. Not without first deeply concerning some friends as they watched my face and neck turn from normal color to red, to deep red, then apparently to a deep reddish purple. I actually received a phone call later in the day as to inquire about my well being. Of course, the person who had made me attended such a masochistic meal happily chewed on his "Code 3" burger like it was a hot ham and cheese. My burge was either much worse than his, or I am a pansy.

So why finish a meal that after the first bit becomes all flame and no taste, simple. You see, when you work in a building full of police men, the only logical thing you can do is suffer through the pain. Because what ever burn the rest of the meal has in store for you, "and the residual burn the day after," it would never be as bad as being labeled, "the guy who's to weak to finish the "Code 3" burger. I would have never heard the end of it. Cops are weird that way.