The Thin Blue Line

This week is National Law Enforcement Appreciation Week, or as it is known in our family, every week.  

This photo of my dad was taken around 1970, at the end of one of his vacations, right before he had to shave his beard (I don't remember if he got to keep the mustache).  I remember he couldn't have the beard on duty, but he wanted a picture of him in uniform with the beard.

I don't remember a time growing up when Dad wasn't a cop.  I know he had other jobs before that, but for most of my influential years, he was a cop.  We lived in a small town, with a small police department, but pretty much everyone seemed to know who the cops' kids were.  We sure couldn't get by with much.

I remember many times when we would be on a family outing and Dad would see an accident and stop to offer assistance if it looked necessary to him.    I remember the time he was so intensely wrapped up in solving a case (a hit and run, I believe) that it seemed he barely slept for two weeks.  I remember when he would put us in the backseat of the cruiser and drive us to the elementary school (embarrassing!!).  I remember that I never knew where he kept his work gun, even though by today's standards it would not have been considered safe.  I remember that telling him the truth, no matter how much I didn't want to tell it, earned his respect and trust.

I don't know why, but I never really worried about Dad being a cop.  Yes, I knew that his life was on the line every time he put on the uniform and went on duty.  But, I also knew he was a good cop, and didn't take stupid chances.

Yesterday at 10:00 p.m., there was a moment of silence to honor all of the law enforcement officers who have died in the line of duty.  My heart breaks for the families who have lost a member who had lived to protect others.  The pain and loss they feel is nothing I can imagine.  The helplessness I feel at being unable to help ease their pain is acute.

There, but for the grace of God, go I.

In August of 1974, an escaped felon had made it back to our town and was reported to be armed and hiding at his girlfriend's home.  Dad was on duty, and as information came in, plans were made to surround the house and recapture the felon. 

Dad rarely talks about the events of that day.  I pieced a lot together by things I overheard.  I do know that emotions and tension were high as they drove through the streets where friends of their kids played; one or two may have driven by their own homes, underscoring the importance of catching this guy and putting him behind bars again.  Their destination was just a few blocks from our own house.

In the course of carrying out the plan, Dad was shot.  It wasn't until after his surgery that we learned how close the bullet came to his femoral artery (less than 0.25 inches).  Keep in mind, this was all before the age of instant information being shared on TV (and the Internet was a dream), so we had NO idea any of this was going on.  It was the end of summer and my brother and I were really just trying to enjoy the few days of freedom we had left.  

There was nothing unusual about how the phone rang, or that it was ringing in the middle of the day.  Yet, somehow I knew something was wrong.  It didn't take long to know from the look on Mom's face that it was close to home wrong.  The three of us piled in the VW Beetle and headed out to the hospital to sit and wait for any news.

I don't remember much about the length of time we were waiting or if Mom was allowed to see Dad before surgery.  I do remember seeing them wheel Dad out of the ER toward surgery, and knowing with absolute certainty that he was going to be OK.

Dad recovered nicely, if not quickly enough for his own plans.  He went back to work as soon as possible, and over the years worked his way up to Chief of Detectives.  He ended up taking a medical retirement that was not in any way related to the shooting, and then worked for quite a few years as head of security for the local school system.

I don't know if there were other times Dad even had to draw his gun.  Those weren't the kind of things he shared with family.  There were a lot of things he didn't share with us.  But one thing everyone knew beyond any doubt was that he loved his job, and he was determined to do his best to keep the town and residents as safe as possible.

So, to all of the men and women who put on a uniform of any kind and choose to put their life on the line to protect me:  God bless you and protect you.  God bless your families and give them peace.  And to the K9 corps:  God bless you and protect you 4 footed wonders.