Columbine

Nineteen years.  Time marched on, but change stalled.  This will not be a post about the number of shootings since this unspeakable tragedy.  It will not list the names of schools and the number of victims, the possibilities of future carnage.  This is my personal reflection of time passed.

My nine year old son was home sick on April 20th, 1999.  We lived in Lakewood, Colorado.  A Denver suburb adjacent to Littleton, just over nine miles from Columbine High School.  Two daughters were in school that day, second grade and a preschool run by the JeffCo district.

Nick was home from school, but not too sick - in my mom opinion - to sit in the buggy at King Soopers and go grocery shopping with me.  We were at the market on the corner of Wadsworth and Jewell, only eight miles from Columbine High School.  The only hint of fear and abnormality was the sirens.  So many sirens.  First a single, signaling wail.  Then another.  And another.  Till the cacophony of emergency was deafening, even in the confines of King Soopers.  Curious?  Yes.  Worried?  Not yet.

Nick in the wagon, we exited to that beautiful, deceiving Colorado sunshine.  And then I saw all the police cars whizzing south on Wadsworth.  Boulder County Sheriff.  Wheat Ridge Police.  Arvada.  Edgewater.  That's when I knew.  The pit in my belly was real and the hair on my neck told me.  Bad.  Something very bad was happening.

I remember looking at Nick and thinking was he aware of the impending danger?  Did he sense from me or the parade of cruisers that an event was underway that we would only fully come to know later in the day?  What goes on in a nine year old head when the news is tragic?  This was before the endless loop of social media.  I found out what was *maybe* happening when I got in my minivan and tuned into KOA on the AM dial.  The old school way to hear news, traffic, weather, tragedy...

I drove home in a stupor.  What?  The reports were muddy and cautious.  I don't remember sensationalizing, but that might have happened.  I was too numb to process the event that was unfolding.  Parents don't send kids to school to die.  In the 19 years that have passed, I realized how naïve my thinking would appear in the rear-view mirror.  I put away my groceries and like hundreds, perhaps thousands of parents that day, I went and got my two other kids at school.  Same school district.  Less than a dozen miles away - the victims of terror just a few years past their own elementary years.

Today is 420 in Colorado.  Except for the cursory mention on Colorado Public Radio to commemorate Columbine the news is overshadowed by celebration of legal marijuana.  The soundbites are about the rally at the Civic Center in Downtown Denver - on the western edge of the state capital.  It sickens me that people can gather and party on this day.  I'm regretful our state has legalized the recreational use of marijuana.  Many of the participants were young, maybe even diapered when Columbine unfolded.  They might have moved to Colorado after this event and therefore have no recollection of the collective, communal grief.  Smoking a joint is the only activism they know.

I went to an Al-Anon meeting this morning on Pierce St.  The same street Columbine is on.  A short two and half miles from the formerly bloody campus.  My meeting doesn't allow for outside issues, so no mention of Columbine.  No moment of silence to mark the grief.  I took a few long moments to have my own reflection of time, progress or lack thereof, children, police officers, corrupt politicians, the whole damn lot that can make me skeptical.  Cynical and tired.

It is said that our cells hold on to trauma.  In that regard I could concoct a fantastical story of how Columbine inspired my young son to become a police officer.  I could easily allow my mind to fabricate how he was deeply moved by the news, the events, his mother's profound grief.  The truth is I have no idea why he chose a profession that is equally targeted with senseless gun violence.  Why he would run toward whatever unseen danger the rest of us would cower from.

My son is a good man.  He made it through high school unscathed.  I recently held his work issued AR-15 in my hands.  The gun was heavier than I anticipated.  He was cleaning his weapon because he'd been at the range recertifying his credentials to carry this powerful machine.  Credentials, training.  Not a kid in his bedroom assembling weaponry and bombs to bring to school.  A professional trained to face the un-faceable.

Nineteen years.  I can't allow my mind to wander to all the other shootings that have unfolded.  Against kids.  Against cops.  I am too sad to process any more heaviness today.  I am at my desk just 10 miles from Columbine High School.  A different direction than all those years ago, yet so much remains the same.

Our kids and our cops deserve better.  No partying for me today.  Only reflection.

Time to Write,

Jane

Because I Can...

I'm not intimate with firearms, but I am not a stranger either.  A few years back, after the Waldo Canyon fire decimated the Mountain Shadows neighborhood in Colorado Springs, after midnight theater goers in Aurora didn't come home, after a mentally disturbed young man with easy access to a gun killed children in Sandy Hook, I got the idea that I needed to learn how to shoot.  For protection.  Self-preservation in a seemingly mad world.

I bought a Groupon to a local gun club, talked my friend Martha into attending a conceal carry class with me, and off we went.  This was a one-day gig.  It was about 2/3 classroom instruction and 1/3 at the range downstairs.  They had a variety of guns for us to choose from, and we paid for the bullets.

The classroom portion was easy. And what I mean by that is not in depth.  How to handle a firearm, how to check the chamber is empty before messing around with a gun.  Never put my finger on the trigger unless I intend to shoot.  I got a nifty little handbook, produced by the NRA, with a recap of what I had learned.  Most of it seemed very common sense, but I'll repeat; not deep.  Certainly not intellectual.

This was a female only class taught by a beautiful blond with a sidearm.  Open carry - a BIG gun -fully visible on her hip. She assured us how comfortable we would be in this class because 'men in gun classes can be intimidating.'  She talked about ways a woman can carry a weapon in nifty purses with a special pocket that we could shoot right through, never revealing our gun. Of course these purses were for sale downstairs alongside the gun we might tuck into it.  Even gun safety classes exit through the gift shop. There was no discussion of how it might feel if we ever actually had to employ firepower for our protection.  How we might be psychologically affected 'after the shoot'.  There was a bit of emphasis that a conceal carry permit is for our own, and our families protection.  Not vigilantism.  I was in awe of the instructor. She seemed very capable and bad ass.  Maybe it was that gun on her hip...

The range component was a bit trickier for me.  I learned that I am left eye dominant.  For a righty that means I can't shoot the side of a barn, let alone a paper target of a man's torso.  I'm told to turn a bit and try shooting cross body.  That doesn't help much.  Meanwhile Martha is a crack shot. She has successfully thwarted the dark paper torso target from approaching her and causing her bodily harm. My new plan for personal safety is this; no need to carry a gun, just hang out with Martha at all times. Apparently growing up on a farm in the mid-west is more life preparing than being raised in the bucolic suburbs of New York City.   I may have quasi street smarts, but Martha can shoot that weapon like there is no tomorrow.  

The instructor pulls me aside at the end of the class, my certificate of completion waving in her hand, and wisely tells me I need more practice before I even consider carrying a weapon.  This is not part of the class.  I have proficiently passed the requirement to apply for a conceal carry permit with this piece of paper.  This advice is her professional opinion, and I heed the admonishment.

I have a friend who is an avid shooter.  He has a membership to the upscale gun club where I took the class.  He agrees to teach me more about guns and safety and how to actually hit the target.  Several times I am his guest at the range.  He has an arsenal of guns, so no need to rent one from the club.  He evens treats me to the bullets.  I feel special.  He notes that I am a right handed shooter with a stronger left eye.  He takes a small amount of Vaseline and smears the left lens of my glasses.  Now I am forced to use only my right eye.  I improve my skills with this seemingly easy technique.  On another visit, he has me shooting with my left hand.  This is a bit tougher.  Anyone who has tried using a pen with their other hand knows our brains resist this.  

Finally I feel like I am a responsible enough person to own and carry a gun.  I plop down about $150.00 at the El Paso County Sheriff's office and wait for this permission to arrive in the mail.  About six weeks later it is official.  I can discreetly take a weapon with me wherever I go.  I don't own a gun, but I can if I want to.  I've been background checked.  I have a plastic card the same size as the one that allows me to drive a car.  It has my photo, my height and my weight.  It also has my hair color which I adamantly refused to be notated as red.  Even though my hair color at the time was kind of orangy-brown.  Crazy people have red hair.  Please put brown.  This is what I asked the clerk who was in charge of recording my info and fingerprinting me.

I moved several times around the state in the ensuing years.  Each time I dutifully notified the sheriff of my new address.  The permit is good for five years, and I don't need to reapply in another county until then.  Each time they sent me a new card with the same photo and info, just an update on where to find me if need be.  When the time came to renew in the county where I now reside, all it took was an appointment and a check for $30.00.  That's it.  That was all.  I did have to reapply, affirming I wasn't arrested for domestic violence or any other felony in the past few years.  But other than a new photo, taken by the deputies office, no extra charge, and a reapplication fee, that was it.

In all of this, no one ever asked me if I suffered from mental illness or depression.  Not one human being looked me in the eyes to see if I was all there.  The most responsible participant in this journey was my female first steps instructor.  The gal who said I needed more training.  And she was right.  I respect her for telling me because it might have meant a missed sale at their gun counter.

Five years have passed.  Do I feel any safer in a theater or church?  Not really.  Do I have visions of driving by a school, seeing police and commotion and rushing in to save the day.  Never.  Has my behavior changed because of fear?  Yes.  I don't like big crowds.  I won't march in the Israeli Day parade in Denver because I don't want to be a target in a cordoned chute.  Like my son, who is a police officer, I try to always sit facing a door.  I want to see what is coming my way.  I often choose a seat in a restaurant that is near the back exit.  I've learned to continually assess my surroundings and make adjustments that make me feel safer.  This is all in my head, but it is my head.  I give myself permission to indulge some of this new found paranoia.

Do I stay home and cower?  No.  I live my life to the best of my abilities.  I go hiking on trails, but myself, but I bring protection.  Because I can.  Protection isn't always a gun.  I'm not an advocate of pepper spray in overly windy Colorado.  Plus I don't want anyone to get that close to begin with.  Distance is protection.  My voice is my best weapon.  No one likes a crazy woman screaming at the top of her lungs.  Attitude plays a part.  Shoulders back, head held high.  I pray this works for a one on one confrontation.  All the aforementioned are moot in an active killing scenario.

Do I think the training I received in one long night at the gun club was adequate for the right to carry a pistol?  No.  I took it upon myself to seek further instruction when advised to.  A responsible gun owner goes to the range on a regular basis to keep skills sharp.  Reinforce that muscle memory, so that when needed our basic instinct of fight or flight kicks in to warrior mode.  Do I think Colorado is the wild west and I should just carry all the time?  I won't reveal that here.  I'll just say that it is very difficult to holster a gun into yoga pants.

Time to Write,

Jane

Magic Bullet

Birthdays are a good time to reflect and resolve.  My birthday is today and February is a great time to check in on my New Year resolutions.  Decide if anything I thought two months ago is still valid for me today.  Examine current events and see what has changed in the world climate to determine if my focus should alter, perhaps a softer line of thought, or a harder outlook on life.  Life.  Life.

Life is what is forefront in my mind.  Children's lives.  Police Officer's lives.  Politicians lives.  The president's life.  The first two, children and LEO's* are more about death than life.  Children sent to slaughter, like cattle.  The chute is the school hallway.  Both are shot in the head.  For cattle, that is supposedly humane.  For children it is the epitome of man's inhumanity toward man.

For Police Officer's lives.  Brave women and men that put on 45 pounds of equipment and armor each day in the guise of trying to keep us safe.  In this reckless, careless society.  Bad guys have guns, so more good guys need guns.  I can't wrap my head around this force needs to be met with force thinking.  Gandhi didn't think that, and neither did Martin Luther King.

Let's give teachers guns and ammo.  Train them to shoot active killers.  A side note here, I do not like the sanitized term of active shooter.  These mostly young men are not shooting, they are KILLING.  The euphemism rankles me.  I'm sure the NRA would prefer the word shooting, as that is what they purport to teach their disciples.  In actuality, it is killing.  Let's call it what it is.

Back to teachers being armed.  I shake my head at this notion.  Every single Police Officer ever killed in the line of duty was armed.  And trained.  And retrained.  And certified and recertified in marksmanship.  Most likely he or she was wearing a protective vest.  This very simple notion keeps me from thinking that arming a third grade teacher with a weapon would be just the right magic bullet to stop gun violence.  Pun intended, though I find no humor in this subject.

Please don't hold Israel up as an example.  Long before their teachers were educators, they were soldiers.  They don't arm and protect against fellow students, they defend the kids from terrorists.  Their society is different than ours.  America.  The only free nation in the world with a gun problem. But guns don't kill people - people kill people.  People with guns kill people.  Cars kill people.  Knives kill people.  Strangulation kills people.  Lack of healthcare kills people.  Lack of compassion kills people.  Maybe it is our government that is killing people.

Politicians lives.  I'm not in the mood to quote statistics or give attention to the corrupt congressional representatives who take money from the NRA and other special interest groups.  Even the name special makes it sound so benign.  The NRA is special.  You bet your ass they are.  They are so special, they literally pay off congress to look away.  Turn a blind eye.  Send thoughts and prayers.  Refuse to refuse donations.  Politicians who have lifetime pensions and fabulous healthcare and armed security where they work and play baseball.  They must be special too.  They certainly belie the notion of democracy.

Now to our president.  He lived in a house with gold toilets.  He penned the art of the deal.  He belittles those with disabilities.  He grabs women by the pussy.  He cannot even read a book.  He has turned the office into a twitter war with anyone who will play along with him. He holds a listening session and says nothing new or profound.  He has no original thought.  His life is affecting my life.  Your life.  Can he turn the tide?  I guess so, if his Mar-a-Lago guests tell him to.  If his sound-bite authors feed him some relevant fodder.  I would like to see him do something other than just undoing what our last president did.  Something.  Anything. But I don't hold hope for this.

Lives.  Today I celebrate the day my parents gave me life.  59 years ago.  My reflections are my own.  Please, take what you like and leave the rest.  If you agree or disagree, that is your option. If you have something to say  - write your own blog.  This forum is for all of us who possess the ability to think and tap a few keys.  Nothing special or magical about it.

I'm not here to argue.  Today, in this life, in my life, I choose love.

Peace Everyone,

Jane

*LEO - Law Enforcement Officer

Choices. Careers. Community.

My son is a cop.  He makes responsible, thoughtful decisions and is of the age where he need not consult his mom about his choices.  I will tell my self this over and over again today, in the next few days.  These are the days leading up to a visit with my son and his family.  I will silently chant this mantra to myself because I know I won't be able to stop myself from talking to him about his career choice.  It is imperative.

There are plenty of dangerous jobs out there.  The other night my friend Ron showed me a photo of his son harnessed and joyfully dangling far above the Denver skyline.  He is in the construction trades, and like my son is good looking with a great smile.  I'm guessing both these men enjoy the adrenaline rush that comes with their work, but I really don't know.  It's wild conjecture.  I have no idea why some people choose altruistic professions and others work jobs that have inherent dangers.  Once my son told me he would die of boredom if he had a desk job.  Is an office job more benign than being a cop?  9-11 taught me that even people with seemingly safe office positions can confidently leave for work one day, not to return home that evening.

As his mother, just once, I am going to proffer my opinion.  Speak my mind.  Like many officers, my son has a spouse, a child, two sister, parents.  Family.  When he first starting as an officer I would go to bed each night thinking how while I slept, he was awake.  WIDE AWAKE.  Patrolling.  Protecting. Then Ferguson happened and all these people on FaceBook were bashing the blue.  I could barely sleep at night while fair weather FB friends would conveniently espouse opinions behind the electronic armor of their keyboards.  I unfriended anyone whose anger was the color blue.  Not because they disagreed with me.  I unfriended them because this mother's psyche did not need to be negatively fed with any more reasons to lie awake at night.

For some people the hot-button issues of policing are political.  For me, any issue regarding the police is personal.  For some being far removed either geographically or familiarly makes it easy to opine and whine.  It does not mean I want to turn a blind eye to injustice.  It only means that when one police officer is attacked - morally, for a split second decision, physically - all police officers feel that punch.  And so do their moms.  So when my friends speak badly about police, it is personal.  The men and women in blue go to work, say their good-byes to spouses, children, moms and never know if this is the last farewell.  Any given day could be their final shift.  End of watch.

2018.  My son now works days.  My childhood notion that daylight is safer then darkness is quickly dispelled.  Bad shit happens when the sun is shining.  In Colorado three officers are killed in 37 days.  Last night in Ohio two men in blue went to work, to serve and protect, and they will not be returning home.  Even though I do not watch the news, I also don't live under a rock.  There are many days when the news is grim enough to make me want to stay in bed, covers over my head.  Crying.  I don't.  This is how I process my grief and sorrow.  My anger and fear.  I write until my hand hurts and my hope is that my reader will find the same relief in this receiving as I do in the giving.  I find breath in the giving.

Choices.  Careers.  Community.  Where does this thought tornado leave me this morning?  This beautiful, sunny Colorado Day?  A day that finds my son on duty.  A day that will find me going about my business all the while pushing the dark thoughts of my son's career choice to the back corner of my mind.  He is trained.  He is professional.  Breathe.  I will breathe and allow my mind to wonder a bit to my not so steely resolve to confront my son about his choice.  His career choice to protect and serve his community.  My decision is never a good one if it is based on fear, and this urge to speak to him is beyond fear.  It is terror.  A mother bear like desire to push him back into my den and make him hibernate until this insanity passes.

I went to bed last night determined to have a talk with my son.  A more difficult conversation than any previous ones.  Don't bully.  Stand up for others. Respect girls.  No means NO!  Birds and Bees! Now I want to proclaim -  DON'T BE A COP.  This will be tough.

I don't usually go on FB till I've had a cup or two of coffee and have written my morning pages.  Today as I swiped right to silence my alarm, I saw I had a FB notification from my former neighbor in Colorado Springs.  Yesterday was the funeral for the third deputy killed in the line of duty in Colorado.  In just 37 days.  Fittingly it was an over-cast and bitter day.  I had posted a piece on my blog titled Blood is Not the Color of Colorado, and she responded with this:

I attended the funeral service today for Deputy Micha Flick. He and his family attended my church Jane. New Life church and that's where the funeral service was held. This was my first time attending a funeral service for a fallen law enforcement member.

I never experienced anything like it. It blew my mind to see so many people represented from all over the nation and even a law enforcement officer from Canada to honor this young 34yo dedicated man that promised to do his best to protect us and his fellow brothers and sisters in blue.

He stood in front of his killer and the other officers and gave his life up to spare theirs. There were thousands of people who attended. I couldn't believe how much I cried throughout the whole service. The two things that got to me the most was when they carried his casket in and when Taps was played. I'm not sure if you saw any footage of it on the news tonight. The things his wife shared and the strength that she showed was so powerful. Again, I've never experienced anything like this in my life.

Words can't describe what I felt. I'm glad I didn't let the weather stop me from going to show my support. Jovon came with me and he sat and drew the picture they had of Deputy Micha Flicker on the monitor before the service began. I told him we need to find a way to get it to his wife one day. I'll have to text it to you tomorrow.

Give Nick a hug from me and tell him how much he is appreciated for his service.

Wow.  Jeanne's words are moving.  Last night I went to bed thinking I had some magical motherly power to get my son to quit policing.  Re-invent himself.  Reading Jeanne's post I know my message is changed.  I know the only words I will utter, through choked back tears, on Wednesday will be these:

     "I love you son, and I am proud of you and your choices.  Your community is lucky to have 
      you.  Stay vigilant.  Be safe"

Cop Mom

Blood is Not the Color of Colorado

Does it really take me as long to settle in back home as it did to get ready to go away?  My mother taught me right, so all my laundry was done toot suite, other articles of clothing and shoes put in their respective places.  But I've yet to unpack my health and beauty bag - it stares at me every time I enter the loo -  and my writers box is acting as a catchall for my mail accumulation.

I really did cry when I crossed the line that demarcates New Mexico from Colorado.  'Hasta la Vista' proclaimed the bright yellow sign hanging from the underbelly of a bridge on I25.  The 'Welcome to Colorful Colorado' sign that met me moments later is always a laugh to me.  Brown wood with plain white writing proclaiming we are a colorful state.  Mmm...

But the news upon my return is solemn.  We have lost three sheriff deputies in 37 days.  One from Douglas County, very close to where I stay in South Suburban Denver.  My area was on lockdown that fateful morning with a reverse 911 shelter in place message.  While I was in New Mexico a deputy lost his life in Adams County, also on the front range.  And just this week an El Paso county deputy was senselessly slain in the line of duty.  These selfless public servants were each killed while fulfilling their promises to serve and protect us - the general public.  

As I mosey around town to go to the gym or the supermarket, I notice that the flags, Colorado  state and American are flying at half staff.  And each time I pass this silent testament to the ultimate sacrifice tears well up, my heart beats a bit faster.  How can I casually resume my life when three good men are dead, and their families are grieving?  What is it about the human brain that allows me to compartmentalize my emotions and continue with my activities, even when I am sad.  And mad.  Livid that thugs are taking over my beloved Colorado.  Angry that our population explosion has brought with it many negatives, including crime.  Gun crime.  Senseless crime.

I won't start a gun control debate here.  The issues are many and I am not even sure how I feel at this point in time.  Should I carry a weapon with me at all times because lawless psychopaths abound?  Should I contact my legislators and demand better, more thorough background checks?  Should our communities be providing the absolute latest technology in body armor to our law enforcement?  Will a state that is historically opposed to raising taxes allow money to be spent to protect those who protect us?  Is the right of an individual to bear arms more important than protecting police?  Children?  Theater goers?  Church worshippers?  Shoppers?  Marathoners?

Yes, this is a colorful state.  We are blessed with blue skies, white snowcapped peaks, blue spruces.  But the color of the red blood spilled by our law enforcement is ruining our state.  The color of hate and crime and drugs is sullying the formerly majestic view.  

I am a Cop Mom.  I support those who wear a badge, put on their Kevlar and brave the streets.  I think every man and woman has the right to return home every night.  Every single LEO*, every single night.

Welcome to Colorful Colorado should always bring us joy.  Not tears, not half-staff patriotism, not funerals.  We can do better than that.

Time to Write,

Jane

*LEO -Law Enforcement Officer

   

Turn the Gun

Here's the deal
How I feel
I don't care
If you grew up
rough, tough
Homeless
Privileged
'Burbs or barrio
City boy
Country mouse
Small apartment
Big ol' house
Fatherless
Motherless
Educated
Or berated

Here's the deal

How I feel

Work a job

Get a life

Straighten up

Deal with strife

Work some steps

Clean your act

Drop the pipe

Face the facts

Children born

Stick around

Plant your feet

Upon the ground

Abandon thugdom

Walk the line

Grow up 'fucker

Now's the time

Here's the deal
How I feel
I don't care
About you
Leave alone
Those in blue
They protect
You infect
They encroach
You're a roach
They are selfless
You are selfish
The time has come
Turn the gun
Time's a thief
For you?
No grief

Ripped From the Headlines

There is no magical number
To ease heartache, suffering
400 miles of I25 cannot separate me
From the pain and the tears

Geography is not able to cure
The deep sadness, my simmering rage
Another day.  Another death.  Another deputy.

How many moms, how many times
Do we text our own LEO*
"Stay safe.  I love you"
The oddest relief to know
He's not on duty, he's in a class

My own son is not participating in a manhunt
But his guard will forever be up
All eyes will always be open, including his ajna
On duty, in daylight

At night he will sleep with only one eye shut
Replaying the day, overjoyed to be home
Keeping his wife and little one safe
From the horrors of his quotidian quotients

He will learn to look through those eyes
With the lens of danger, crime
Drugs, alcohol fueled frenzies
Senseless death

This job will scar him in ways
A mother should never know
Reality will take the sweet little man of yesterday
My boy who never played with toy guns
And turn his heart a bit cold, stony. Yet
The true nature of his compassion will
Not be lost to me

His Cop Mom

*LEO - Law Enforcement Officer

Scotch Tape and Tickets

Casita Life.  A small cozy space, akin to a studio apartment, except it is only one self-contained unit.  The essentials are here; stovetop, toaster oven, French Press, printer, wi-fi.  And the necessities too; comfy Murphy bed, (never to be folded), washer and dryer, a nicely appointed lavatory.  I am feeling pretty at home here.

The parking in Santa Fe, especially in this downtown area is tight and tough.  I have a parking pass that allows me to be on the Casita's street only, without qualifying for a ticket.  My hostess has suggested I just keep the pass on the dash at all times, and at first that seemed like a good idea.  But then that Cop Mom brain comes into play and I think NO!  Why should I announce to every stranger, in every parking lot, the street name where the car with Colorado plates (and of course the driver) is staying.  It is a short street with only about 12 houses, so it wouldn't be difficult to track me down, plus the casita is set way back from the road.  My intuition tells me just remember to put it up and down as needed.

Before this innate paranoia set in, I thought "let me get some scotch tape and attach the pass to the dash".  It likes to slide around, and just my luck it would fall into the defroster vents, never to be seen again.  In the future every time I would turn on the heat I'd hear it flutter from the inner cogs of my car and I would be warmly reminded of my time in Santa Fe.

Yesterday, I walked 1.5 miles to an Al-Anon meeting.  GPS doesn't like walkers as much as drivers and it is a bit weird to be in  public with my purse telling me what to do, where to go.  Kind of like being married.  On Montezuma St. my pocket pal had me turn around three times - go east - go west - go east, before I just looked at the damn map myself and figured it out.  Par usual the return trip was easier and faster.  I was able to let my mind wander a bit; did I feel Santa Fe like the lady in the restaurant suggested?  Do I possess the determination to write prolifically here?  Did I really need hiking boots for an urban stroll?  The sidewalks are in shit shape.  Scree abounds, tree roots have created pyramids of concrete, and drivers like to dare me to go.

About halfway back to the Casita, there are two rolls of scotch tape on a pilaster.  A little note,  taped down, announces: FREE!  I stand there with my mouth agape.  Does the universe want me to affix my parking pass?  Why is there free tape just hanging out on my walk?  One is the typical encased in plastic roll, and the other is for desk top office models.  I look around to see if anyone is watching, filming perhaps?  I mean, who gives away scotch tape?  Did these folks neglect to buy enough holiday gifts to justify their tape supply?

Even though the sign says free, implying take it, I surreptitiously slip the self-contained unit into my purse.  I feel smug, like I've scored something priceless.  How ridiculous to have a surge of satisfied emotion, the same kind of brain tingle I get when my FB post gets a lot of likes.  I continue on my jaunt, now obsessed with the should I / shouldn't I thought process of whether to tape the pass  or not.  Cop Mom vs citation angst.

For now my Cop Mom brain waves win.  Maybe it is my residual New Yorker psyche that knows the world is not only full of wonderful, kind people, but also some dirt-bags.  I need only turn on the nightly news, which I actually avoid doing, to hear the horrors of society.  I temper my need to feel safe with a dose of confidence.  I've got this.

Time to Write,

Jane

The Night of the Day the Deputy Died

On the night of the day the deputy died
I awoke to the sound of gunfire
No, it was fireworks
New Year's Eve - the day the deputy died
People were celebrating, replicating gunfire
Oblivious to the angst in our community

That  night, I dreamt poorly
My son was a baby, bobbing on water in a car seat
Happy and pudgy.  And safe
I swam up to him to have a peek
And toppled the vessel into the water

Down he descended, my wide eyed baby boy
Eyes pleading - keep me safe Mommy
Get me.  I tried to swim to the bottom
Over and over I climbed out of the water
Diving in, again and again
Never deeply enough to save my baby boy

The water drained and my son was enveloped
Tightly, in thick gauge plastic
His body was misshapen, his face compressed
I begged for someone, anyone to
Cut the vinyl wrapper from my baby

The baby's father appeared with a long
handled, long bladed scissor
The kind reserved for Grand Opening ribbon cuttings
He asked if I was sure I wanted to free our baby boy
This plastic is pricy, irreplaceable..
And I opened my mouth and...
I screamed and I screamed and I wailed
Save my baby boy, save my baby, save my boy

Just as the deputies mother must have screamed
In her own bed that night, her own reality
Of the night of the day the deputy died

Cop Mom

Like so many writers today, I thought I'd wake up and post a profound commentary on the year end/new year continuum.  A perky reflection on my accomplishments of 2017 and a hopeful anticipation of what 2018 may have in store for me and my loved ones.  I stayed up late on the next to last night of 2017, and had every intention of sleeping in, which for me is somewhere around seven am.  Instead of awakening with abundant inspiration and motivation to write, I was roused from my sleep with the steady wail of sirens.  Then a phone notification which was difficult to discern - was it a text?  email?  FB post?   I have a new phone and don't know the nuances of the noises.

The phone notification was a text from a friend  who lives close by telling me we are being instructed to shelter in place.  Cop shot on County Line Road in Douglas County.  This is tough news to process at any time, but before coffee?  My mind was reeling.  Is the deputy OK?  Did they catch or kill the bastard?

I am an NPR kind of morning person, so I tune in.  Shit.  When news like this is the lead on NPR you know it is bad.  Without thinking I open my front door to grab the Denver Post, but it is not there.  I assume the post got the dates of my vacation notice wrong, but no big deal.  I can pick up a paper later on today.  With my first cup in hand, I google 9News and read one deputy down, but when I click again the word changes to multiple.  I am in the red zone of residents being asked to shelter in place.  That is why there is no paper; the roads around the apartment where I am staying are closed due to law enforcement activity.

Cop Mom.  I am the mother of a police officer in Colorado.  I grab my phone and send a 'stay safe' text to my son on his work phone,  He doesn't carry his personal cell on duty and I want him to know I am thinking about him, his colleagues and all law enforcement in Colorado.  Stay safe.  Two short, simple words.  A prayer perhaps that my son will be safe again today,  That the deputies in DougCo are not mortally wounded.  That their families  - their families what?  I don't even know.  That they can 'handle' what comes their way today?

Cop Mom.  I sit and drink my coffee and cry into my cup.  Sometimes I hate living in Colorado.  My son, the cop, was nine when Columbine happened .  He wasn't feeling well and stayed home from school that day.  We were shopping at King Soopers on Wadsworth and Jewell when the non-stop screeching of sirens began.  I kept thinking what the hell is going on?  When we left the store, the police cars were racing down Wadsworth.  Arvada PD, Boulder County Sheriff, Westminster.  I knew it was bad.

Platte High School.  New Life Church.  Aurora Theater. Arapahoe High School.  A street shootout in Colorado Springs.  Planned Parenthood in Colorado Springs.  Thornton Wal-Mart...

Was this the reflection I had planned for today?  A chronology of gun violence in Colorado?  Absolutely not.  I was thinking more along the lines of my grandson's milestones.  My daughter's achievements and struggles.  An assessment if I had fully or partially or poorly achieved  my goal of a year of writing.  Reading only memoir and poetry and craft.  Was I on the right path?

Instead I am sad.  Frightened. Empathetic toward the other Cop Mom's out there today.  Wondering if the news will be bright or bleak on this last day of 2017.  I'm in a condo in south suburban Denver, shades drawn, away from outside walls,  That is what the shelter in place instructed.  I am listening to helicopters overhead.  The sirens have stopped.  It is eerie to be here by myself.  No one to hug and tell me 'it' is going to be OK.  No one to share my unknown, but not unfound, grief with.

Cop Mom.  On this brilliant, sunny Colorado day.  Stay Safe Son.