Ex Cop Tales

Now – The Peace Patrol and a Mission

December 15th, 2020 – Crestone Colorado

I believe every man should have a Mission that is greater than anything else.

A distant horizon, a mountain top, a direction of travel – The place that my path leads me. To be in service to something greater than self or Clan. To find something you can swear an Oath to. The people in my life are important and I would die for them but I always have my Mission.

I have found mine in the Peace Patrol.

Stupa of enlightenment – A place I catch and project Love Beams

I live in a small Colorado mountain town nestled in the wiggly toes of Grandfather mountains. I am embraced and held up by the beauty and Wild Places just outside my front door. This town is unique and often referred to as the spiritual crossroads of the World. Many have been called to this place. It’s a loving community filled with Teachers, Artists, Writers, Hippies and other beautiful people.

I was drawn here like a moth to a flame. One day, when I was volunteering at Orient Land Trust, Rosie asked if I wanted to go to Crestone with her. I was low on supplies and didn’t have anything else to do and thought why not. We covered the backroads between the spring and the town filled with a great conversation about Rosie’s life in Crestone. She was and is well respected and a pillar of the community. She would become my gatekeeper.

Rosie told me of the death of her beloved husband Ed in intimate detail. She then asked me if I wanted to visit the Pyre where he was cremated, it was on our way. I barely knew what a Pyre was but I said yes.

Once inside the circle of bamboo fence and witness to the pyre itself Rosie began to cry and relived for me the open air cremation of her Ed. She told me how the community had gathered around as the sun rose. How she had placed Ed’s guitar on top of him before the fire was lit. How she and Ed’s children had lit the four corners of his pyre. She spoke of magic, tears and love. Hot stinging tears spilled down my face as I thought to myself, “I don’t know what these people are up to but I’ve got to be a part of it”. There and then I made myself a promise to move to this town.

*I would later volunteer to be a member of the fire team with Crestone End of Life Project*

I posted on facebook that I was looking for a room. Rosie vouched for me and Anrahyah took me in. The preverbal wandered had found a home.

Back to a mission and the Peace Patrol

Covid had just struck and I began to have security concerns for my town. The local Sheriff is stretched thin and I knew it. I started asking around if there were any other retired law enforcement or military people willing to stand with me in defense of this town. That led me to Kofi.

Kofi is an ex-gangbanger raised on the streets of Gary Indiana. Our backgrounds could not have been more different. He was to become one of my best partners ever, and I’ve had many great partners, Batman and Robin once again. Kofi is a man of honor and earned respect. Tough as nails with a gentle heart, a rare man who I love.

Slowly we started building a team. There are 15 of us now. Kofi already had a strong group of men surrounding him that had been doing similar work for the past years. We built from there.

We trained and found a foundation of our core values. Kofi brought the 42 Ideals of Ma’at to us which the team adopted as our oath.

Sophiah Yaa Fyah Bey™ on Twitter: "42 Ideals of Maat and 42 Negative Confessions of Maat. One in th rising and th other before rescing. Yah can also say "I will not"

We are not Warriors because Warriors need enemies and we have none. We are Protectors and Keepers of the Peace. We are prepared to stand between these people and whoever would threaten or prey on them. We come with open hearts and strong will. We stand together in this work.

We have gathered a group of Grandmothers around us and ask them to Guide us, Lead us and Hold us responsible for our actions.

We met with the Sheriff and received his blessing.

One time Kofi and I identified an active meth house. A woman, who had been at the dope house for three days and nights smoking meth, ended up pounding her knuckles bloody against my door at midnight. When I answered the door I could barely understand her rattled speed freak talk. I did pick up on threats of assault and knew it was tied to the dope house around the corner from me.

I called Kofi to back me up. He was there within five minutes.

Kofi asked the freak if he could smudge her with sage (it’s a hippie thing). She agreed and Kofi smudged her with the wing of a hawk. She did seem to calm down and Kofi moved into the good cop role.

He turned and said to me, “Brother we have to catch this woman. We are called on to protect the women, the children, the elders and the Chief. The Universe delivered her to your doorstep.” In that moment I loved him more.

We spent the next three hours driving this woman all over the valley. No one would take her in. Kofi took her to his home and put her up in his casita. Over the next days Kofi and his wife would take the woman to her mother, who refused to even speak to the her, and two homeless shelters before finding a place for her.

Kofi and I later decided to have a little talk with the meth dealer. I drove up across the street from the dope house just as our primary suspect was driving away. I waved him over to my van. I asked the dealer, “Do you know who I am” as I stared hard into his eyes. He said no. “Have you ever heard of the Peace Patrol”? Again he said no. I told him he should ask around because he had our undivided attention.

I decided to take a different tact. Rather than argue over whether or not he was running a dope house, which I’d already confirmed though numerous informants he was, I went in this direction.

“Young man I’ve done a deep background investigation on you and I want to tell you this. Almost every person I spoke to told me what a fine student and young man you use to be, what happened”. It was the truth.

The dealer, addicted to his own shit, was broken to tears as he said he wanted to be that again. Kofi said, “Young brother let us help pull you back into the light but you gotta stop slinging dope and defiling our women and community with your poison”.

The young man nodded in agreement, having indirectly admitted to selling dope. He invited Kofi and I to visit anytime, unannounced. He closed down his operations shortly and a nice family moved in the once dope house.

Another time I was in town when someone contacted me and related that there was a home invasion in progress in the Baca. The Sheriff had already been notified. It just so happened that two other Peace Patrol members were in town. I swooped them up and we responded to the location. Our intent was to only get eyes on the location and surveil it until the Sheriff arrived. When we got there we discovered the Sheriff’s car in a nearby intersection in a head on configuration with another vehicle. Both vehicles had their driver’s doors wide open. No one was present. The hairs on my neck rose. I told the team we had a new focus, to find the Sheriff and back him up.

Within minutes we located the Sheriff, he was fine and thanked us for our quick response and backup. The case turned out to be more of a squatter.

Another time most of the team was in town right after a meeting. Kofi’s niece came running up to him trembling, eyes brimming with tears, and said that a man in the brewery was calling her a nigger. I looked at Kofi and said, “I’ve got your back”.

As we walked across the street the drunk was already heading out. I stood 6 feet away as Kofi approached him. I could hear the drunk calling Kofi a nigger and saying he uses that word all the time and we should all “Get fucking use to it”. Kofi explained that it wasn’t acceptable here or now.

I saw the drunk take some bridge work out of his mouth and put it in his pocket, a tell for what he was about to do. I closed the distance a little.

The drunk pushed Kofi in the chest and drew back his right fist. Kofi launched him into the middle of the street and was atop him. I dove on the pile and ended up with my left hand around the drunk’s neck, his head pinned to the ground drawing back my right fist to put his lights out when I stopped and said,

“Brother we can still make Peace” and just like that he released his hold on Kofi and I didn’t have to fuck him up. Beautiful, the old me would have never given him that chance.

After the pile was unwound we learned this. While Kofi and I were in the pile with the drunk another drunk, a visitor to the town, pulled a knife and started towards us while we were fully distracted.

An “Outer Team Member”, ex-military of just hard hitters who back us up, saw this and disarmed the perp. I’ve been stabbed before and was thankful it didn’t happen again.

Another time I met a new visitor to town who felt called to be here. He is an Iraq war veteran with a traumatic brain injury and a raging case of PTSD, a three striker. Just being around him triggered my wires but I tried to reach him. We did have a connection and he showed interest in joining me and the Peace Patrol.

One morning this happened. The Iraq Veteran sent an image to my phone of a fixed blade knife in his hand with the message, “Get to Jeff’s now before I start killing some motherfuckers”. It just happens that I know and love Jeff.

First I call the Sheriff’s department and tell them to start rolling something to Crestone, that I didn’t have the address but I gave them some crossroads nearby. Next I call Jeff and get no answer. I sent a message to the Peace Patrol with all the information I had, grab my .45, and bust out the door.

When I arrive at Jeff’s I can hear Tom in a full rage. He is running around the house threatening to kill everyone present. I make a quick call to the Sheriff’s office to update the address and let them know I’ll be out. The dispatcher let me know that backup was 30 minutes out.

Sometimes I’m more hippie that ex-cop and this was one of those moments. As I hung up with the dispatcher I felt Tom’s rage in the air. I suddenly felt that Tom might try to disarm me, he knew I carried all the time and was half my age, or force me to shoot him. Don’t laugh ex-cop buddies but I made the decision to disarm myself and locked my weapon in my van. I was prepared to risk my life to save his. If I was still a Cop the proper tactical approach would have been to fill my hands with the .45 caliber semi-automatic weapon, use available cover, quietly approach, ready.

Then and there I remember another time and wonder why is it always knives. The duality of my Life. Read my chapter Medal of Valor to know where my mind was.

I walked into another shitstorm.

First I was relieved to see the knife back in it’s sheath on his side. Tom was pacing back and forth and would occasionally pick up a baby head size rock and threaten to chuck it at the people he focused his rage on. The Empath could feel his howling pain, how lost he was. In his mind he was a trapped animal wrapped in wire. He was wounded, his past crashing down on him all at once. Two other Peace Patrol members arrived and set an outer perimeter. I was happy to have the back-up.

Tom recognized me. I just kept close to him in case I needed to take him down. I got close to that when he armed himself with a length of lead pipe. I held space for him as he raged up and down the driveway. I kept him from crossing the line and breaking the law, I was the little voice in his ear saying stop. At one point I got him to stop his rage and just hug me. I could only hold him for a minute before he bolted for the nearby woods.

The sheriff arrived and everyone was separated and sent on their way. As wild as this incident was no crime had happened. Our Mission was accomplished, the Peace was held.

Later we tracked down Tom and found him in town. We explained to him that neither Crestone or the Peace Patrol couldn’t help him and his time for leaving had come. He admitted that he was still too violent for our town. We dug in our pockets for the $30 it took to fill his tank, bought him a burrito and a couple of bottles of water and sent him out of town. Money well spent.

In conclusion I think the concept of a community Peace Patrol is just what the Nation needs. I imagine a future with a Sheriff’s department on one side of the building and the other side is the Peace Patrol. Not everything requires a gun. This would free the Police to do their work. We ask our police departments to do to much, to wear too many hats.

My path has lead me to this place, every step. I would rather be with these people, here and now, than anywhere else. So I write my book, plan patrols and wait for the phone to ring – Thankful to be of use.

Wild Woman of the West

I find it a good time to write about past loves before the next one shows up. For me that time is now.

I’m single again for the 21st time. As I reflect back on all the women I have loved and left behind I’ve noticed this. I am a blank canvas that women paint themselves against. If they seek a Bad Boy, a Protector, a Warrior or a wounded human they see that in me. None yet have wanted all the parts of me.

In my own search for a life partner I know this. When we first meet our brains and bodies are filled with dopamine and endorphins. These neurotransmitters and hormones lead us into a deep blissful state. We see these potential partners as almost godlike, we lift them upon our altar of love. We think they are the One.

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Later, and always, we begin to glimpse the clay feet of the gods. At the same time the dopamine and endorphin pumps begin to slow down, then the gods come crashing down.

Since I came out of the Desert and started dating I haven’t had problems meeting women. I just sit back and let Animal put out single male energy – remain calm and confident and cool – and they show up.

A man once asked me, “Michael out of all the women you’ve known how many did you choose”? I was shocked and startled to realize the answer, none! Why didn’t I notice this myself. Maybe the time has come for me to choose.

It’s been too easy to just say next. I’ve always gotten away with dating women 15 to 20 years younger than I and all of them were fit. A chick at a hot spring once said to me, “Michael somebody get’s to bang the cheerleaders just be glad it’s you”. That works for a while but I don’t think Love ages well. I fall off their altars as I grow older. So be careful boys, sometimes there is a hidden price to pay for dating the hot chicks.

I still grieve and mourn the loss of the women I’ve lifted on my altar. I loved them all.

January 20th, 2016 -Terlingua Texas

She, the Wild Woman of the West, wandered up to me as I sat in the shade of the porch drinking a Lone Star. “Hey Michael wanna take a walk with me?” she whispered in my ear. I’d had my eye on this one for awhile. I wasn’t expecting what was about to happen. The Romantic and Animal within me were fully alert – anticipating the possibility of Her.

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I had known this woman for more than five years and had witnessed the wild side of her, she is legendary and lives large. It also helps that she is incredibly beautiful, hard bodied and younger than most of the women I’ve dated.

We walked into the desert surrounded by creosote bushes and the ruins of past lives, stone falling down. She stopped and took both my hands in her’s facing me, “Michael I should introduce myself to you, I am your stalker.” She went on to describe, in detail, almost every one of our past chance encounters. Parties, campfires, experiences in the presence of each other but never together. She pounced on me I thought almost out loud – I was drawn to her – She was Brave and Bold. I wanted her more. Her eyes, pink lipstick and dress drew me to Her. I knew she was comfortable in her woman-ness.

On our first date we stopped in a gun store where she purchased a .357 caliber revolver. We drove out to her place to shoot her new gun and the .9mm Glock I was carrying. We blasted some holes into an abandoned refrigerator and I never once thought of dead dogs. I gave her a few shooting tips which she accepted in a smooth way. Pitfalls of my past were easily avoided with this woman. She is really funny and fun to be around.

A few dates later: “Hey Michael – Wanna come over and watch Trailer Park Boys with me (long husky whispered pause) Naked?”

A few more dates later I would move in with her in an old tin roof one room cabin nestled on the slope of Sombrero Peak. She, her two dogs and I lived and worked on her remote RV park for the following months. I had a blast with this woman and learned much. She was and is the hardest working woman I have ever known.

One day I offered my help to organize her tool shed which she eagerly accepted which was so different from my past relationships. I worked hard for a few days and organized, painted and inventoried the shed. She was impressed and couldn’t have been more thoughtful and generous in showing her appreciation, in her many womanly ways. I wasn’t done. One morning as she slept I spray painted the shed door with a wildly colorful mural. I hadn’t created any “Art” for years but I felt this weird new feeling.

I felt Inspired.

After 20 minutes this is what I had done to her door.

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I heard her up in the house and brought her out in front of the shed without allowing her to look. Only then did tell her I’d spray painted her door – she couldn’t wait to see it. I knew before I turned her around that she would love it, she did and let me know how much. I painted another one of her doors and other things which I gave to friends. I’ve told more than one the story of how I was inspired by this woman – Free to be what I am. I am thankful for the gift of her appreciation – something new to me.

After that I made a corner table for her while she was away taking care of her grandmother, who she loved dearly. On the surface of the table I painted our initials inside a heart.

When I gifted it to her I handed her a little jar of paint. She asked, “What’s this for”? I answered “To paint over my initials when I’m gone silly”. She giggled and accepted the table and the paint with affection.

Even though the Thinker, Realist, and Rationalist that lives in my head knew this relationship would crash and burn the Romantic that lives there too, and rarely pays rent, could only see the beauty of this Woman and she had plenty.

As my feelings grew I knew I would have to speak to her about a difficult subject, her drinking. She wasn’t an alcoholic but in my opinion she drank way too many boxes of wine. I knew that if I should bring it up I would be throwing a grenade into this relationship, a form of self sabotage.

That day finally came after a road trip to get more wine and steaks. When we got back I started a campfire, we were alone and miles from the nearest human being. The West Texas night was just shifting from electric blue to purple light. A slightly warm breeze embraced us and our neighbor, a roadrunner I had named Grandfather, came by to check on us.

I knew there would be no better time to bring up the subject than now. I did the best I could but a fiery argument followed filled with hurtful words. We had found our Ending.

Within 30 minutes I had loaded up my two cardboard boxes of clothing and my DR650 Suzuki motorcycle, inside my van, and I was heading down the dirt road sending up a cloud of dust and cranking JJ Grey’s song The River, which she said reminded her of me.

Where did my soul go?
Where did my spirit hide?
Why won’t they rescue me.
From the pain of the mind.

In the end I knew I was asking too much. I was just a guy. Just a guy that was falling in love with the Wild Woman of the West. This one was all my fault. I had no right messing in her business and she was more than capable of taking care of herself – always had been. The Thinker had pulled the pin on the grenade and blew this relationship up before the Romantic fell deeper in love. It was out of kindness to save him from future pain. Such battles often play out in my Mind.

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I started living in the van down by the river again as free as I’d ever been. During the day I would sometimes ride my motorcycle hundreds of miles to the most awe inspiring mountain Cathedrals of Nature. I cracked myself open in the wild places.

Sometimes I’d visit the naked hot springs in Big Bend park, the spring bubbles to the surface with mud pots right on the edge of the Rio Grande river. Naked and alone I was becoming more wild which I embraced and treasured. The Animal that lives within was free to roam. Sometimes I’d hang out in the shade of a hundred year old porch and drink Lonestar beers all day long laughing with my friends and enjoying organic music. Who ever had a guitar and a will to play often joined in. I was raising hell with the Cowboys and the Hippies and the tourist chicks. The days lazed by. I released the hold any calendar every held over me.

Me then party bound. Don’t ask what’s in the tupperware. Don’t you love it when you show up at a party and the first question is, “How much you weigh”.

One day I drove through Big Bend on my way to a favored place, Langford Hot Spring. Life shot skyward from the desert floor in the branches of the Ocotillio cactus. Their leaves were thick and ranged in color from dark to lime green and crimson. The blossom, red faced and searching, swaying gently on a breath of wind. I was amazed by the vibrant colors of this miniature forest.

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As I pulled into the dusty parking lot I find few cars there. The tourist must have had somewhere else to be, another good sign of things to come. I changed into my shorts behind the van and started the short walk towards the spring. Here the trail is bordered on the right by tall river reed grasses and the Rio Grande and on the left by a vertical cliff face more than 100 feet high. A single track of gray path weaved between the two. The cliff looks to be made of white stones each carefully stacked atop the other. Pictographs of ancient people line the upper ledge. A carpet of small yellow flowers are at my feet.

I was a big dog off the leash – I was a refugee from reality and the King of Ratland.

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The big yearly event known as the Fiesta Protesta or Voices from Both Sides was taking place. Every year we gather on both sides of the river. The Americans on one side and the Mexicans on the other. Each side takes turns playing live music by gifted musicians. Then we gather in the Rio Grande river about 100 feet wide and waist deep with muddy clay banks. Kids slide down mud ramps as dogs and people played in the river. On this day there was no border. I was intoxicated by the friendship and love I found in this place and with these people. We were building bridges not walls. I wondered if anything like this was happening on any other borders on the planet.

There was a deeper and more truly beautiful thing that happens during the confusion of the dogs, the kids, the beer and the music. Real families divided by this border and lacking the official paperwork to cross can and do so on this one day. Large family reunions happen as grandmothers are helped across to hold their newly born grandchildren for the first time.

Some of us cross illegally into Mexico under the watchful eye of the Border Patrol on the hill or the Federales on the Mexico side. I bought 10 pounds of honey and the best brisket sandwich I’ve ever had and started wading back to the American side when…

I was standing in the middle of the river in the middle of this protest waist deep in muddy water. There and then I was struck with another lightening bolt to the Mind. I suddenly knew it was time to leave, whatever I had been up to in this Texas border town had run it’s course. The time for going was upon me.

This sudden insight found me as a complete thought, having never engaged the gears of my mind. I glimpsed a reality without ever thinking about it. I consider them my nudges of the Universe and I give in to them. I think the Universe loves and smiles down upon me and is always trying to find new ways to speak to me. To leave clues in my path that is up to me to decipher.

In the voice of the Raven circling above me, to cast it’s shadow upon my face, I hear the whispered words.

I had my van loaded and said some quick goodbyes and was northbound before the sun had fully set. I remember my pants were still wet.

I never drive more than 300 miles in a day. I don’t have to and if you can’t find something cool to do in 300 miles look harder. I never drive at night because I don’t have to. I would drive throughout this night and into the next day covering 741 miles without having the slightest idea where I was going. I thought maybe the Pacific Northwest because I’d never been there.

Suddenly I noticed I was close to the Orient Land Trust or better known as Colorado’s best naked hot spring. As my past relationship, with a woman from Santa Fe New Mexico, wound it’s way to an end I’d spent many weekends camped at the spring having ridden my BMW motorcycle there. It was and is one of my Touchstone places.

I headed to familiar turf thinking I would spend a couple of days collecting my thoughts and coming up with some sort of a plan. I was greeted at the desk by Rosie who was about to change my life with a single question.

She recognized me from my many previous visits. “How you been Michael” she asked?

“Living the Dream Rosie, Living the Dream” I replied.

We hugged and laughed and caught up for a while. Rosie then asked “Where are you headed Michael” and I answered that I didn’t have a fucking clue.

She then uttered these words that sent my life in a new direction.

“Would you consider being a volunteer here at Orient Land Trust? We don’t pay nothing but you get free camping and electricity”.

“Sign me up Rosie” and with those words my new adventure began. I would become the Astronomy Host, the Camp Host and my favorite gig of all being the trail guide up to our very own bat cave. Two miles up the trail and a 900 foot elevation gain to the cave. I would hike with groups of guests to witness great out flights of Mexican free tailed bats.

My life filled with beautiful naked women, fast motorcycles and skinny trails had begun.

But I’ll save those stories for the next chapter.

The Road Home

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The death of my Father

I wrote this almost five years ago

My Father died today and this is the last conversation I had with him:

“Dad this is Michael your Son, can you hear me?” I stare down at him, frail and gray curled on the hospital bed. He mumbled something I could not understand.

“Dad – We will take care of all the things you were once responsible for. We will take care of Mom and keep her safe. ”

“Dad – We will all survive once you are gone. We will miss you but we will find our way without you.”

“Dad – All is forgiven. Rest easy knowing you will leave here surrounded by Love and Peace.”

“Dad – Your life had meaning and you changed many people for the better. You worked hard and accomplished much and you should be proud of a life well lived. You did good.”

“And finally Dad, know that you’ll be remembered. We will laugh and cry over our memories of a life lived together, with you.”

I then painted for him, with words, a picture of his boyhood home in the green hills of Kentucky. I reminded him of listening to the Grand Ole Opry on a big radio between twin beds while his beloved brother Frank giggled next to him, both young and healthy, planning their next escapade. I spoke of Blackberry cobbler, cold milk and starry nights. I stirred up a Dream for him from the embers of his Life. My Dad called out Frank’s name, the last word he would speak.

“Go easy Dad, I Love you.”

My Dad, Glen Ray Fulcher, took his last breath a couple of hours later.

Peace surrounds me…

Timothy

I had some difficult assignments

It was my job to search for the lifeless bodies of the young, hidden in the murky depths, or under layers of ice. I would cling to the triangle we had carved in the ice, suspended at the moment of courage, the edges of life. A rescue diver already suited up next to me. The time has come to push my body under the ice and search for the beloved and recently missing.

Focus only on tactics and training. The fear would come later, sometimes in the middle of the night.

I was on a team of SCUBA divers responsible for Search and Rescue (USRT). Over the years I dove most of the lakes and rivers in the County. I searched for bodies, cars, weapons and other items of evidence.

The children were the hardest. A family would have their world torn to the bone in the missing minute and the question, “Where’s Timothy”, and the slow sting of panic settles in. Each moment more frantic than the previous.

I was part of the blur of sirens and uniforms, but I was different from the rest. It was my job to go in the water and search for Timothy. As I suited up it was my eyes that you would ask your questions and pin your slim hopes on. Mother’s eyes brimming with tears, trembling lips mouthing mournful pleas. Terror has arrived.

Most often we would find their missing loved one in hours. Sometimes it was after days of diving. Swimming underwater with a rope in tow in wide sweeping arcs. Covering every inch, to shove my hands into the cold mud, like oatmeal. I could rarely see, happy to sneak an occasional clear view of my dive console. Always finding the missing by touch rather than sight.

The startling terror of finding a fellow human so dreadfully out of place. It was always cold and dark. Just a touch of gravity as we danced on the lake bottom.

Timothy is right here, 40 feet under the ice.

I tug the line and get the free lift to the surface with this lifeless child clutched to my chest. I pass him through the hole to the awaiting hands of the real life savers (and a job I could never do) the EMS EMT guys.

I hear the screams of a mother…

These experiences aren’t unique to me. Some Officer, Deputy or Trooper did these same things today, many witnessed much worse.

Maybe someone else needs to know that we can survive the past and live in this day.

The Nightmares of Others

I walked in the nightmares of others.

I wake in the night eyes wide open. The echoes of a scream bounce around the dark room. The scream fades to nothingness. My heart thumps the inside of my ribcage like a panic crazed rabbit trapped in wire. I gasp in a full breath, which seems like my first. Every muscle has fired. What just happened? I feel beaten, I remember…

I was training another rookie. This was a crack infested gang neighborhood and I was on the prowl for my favorite prey, gang bangers with guns. It was early enough that the zombies of the night hadn’t risen yet, hadn’t had their first red pop. The sun was just setting.

The radio barked our call sign and sent us into my continuing nightmare. A neighbor was reporting the sounds of a child crying, possible child abuse.

I rolled a couple of traffic stops on the way, hoping to snag a warrant arrest. I had responded to this type of call many times in the past. Most often some kid got his rear end smacked for some good reason and was still trying out the high notes on his vocal cords.

We stopped a couple of houses short and walked towards the flat ranch. We assumed the customary positions on either side of the door. I rapped the aluminum screen door hard with my streamlite.

I always wanted people to know that it was the Police or your worst nightmare (or sometimes both) knocking. No time for confusion.

No one answered. I was sure I had the right address and thought I heard the muffled sound of a child from a front bedroom. Suddenly the inside lights went dark. Strike One, something isn’t right. I bang harder and shout “Sheriff’s Office, open the door”. No answer, I hear the kids again. I step off the porch and hoist myself up to one of those high sideways windows. The bedroom is dark, I can just see a couple of small children huddled in the corner. I shout into the bedroom and tell the kids it’s the Police and to come open the door. A dark figure shot from the room into the hallway. I expected the door to open….

Nothing

I looked in the window again and a whispered voice said, “Momma won’t let me”. Strike Two. The hairs on my neck rose like a wild dog. Adrenaline began its familiar course, slam the heart and spike the brain. I am alive and ready for anything.

Time for a plan. I quickly explain to the rookie that I was going to give the door a couple of kicks, hoping to convince whoever was inside to let us in. If not I had already decided I had enough to take the door down.

Again I called out “Sheriff” as I placed my 11 ½ squarely into the lock. The first kick loosened everything up nicely, I went to shoulder it the rest of the way when suddenly the door flew opened and I spilled into the darkness.

The rookie was right with me. A quick scan revealed only the mother present in the front of the house. I told the rookie to stay put while I checked on the kids…

I have witness horror many times in my life. Most often its one idiot against another. Violence inflicted upon the innocent is absolute horror.

I walked down the hall into the confining darkness, what was that smell? I opened the door and met my victims, all three of them. The oldest was a child of 7, standing guard over her two younger brothers, the youngest still in diapers.

My eyes adjusted to the darkness while my hand searched for the light switch. There was nothing in the room but a mattress and the kids. Why do they look wet?

Pop goes the light. A new nightmare begins to chisel itself into my gray pudding. Is this Elm Street? The bitch had beaten these children, all three of them. Streaks of blood run from the walls. Railroad tracks of misery are etched into their naked bodies. Their skin glistened with dark blood. They were shaking like dogs. I screamed out some obscenity.

Strike Three.

My eyes fell upon the she bitches tool of terror, a 2 inch leather strap with a big silver buckle. I made one full wrap around my fist, leaving the buckle dangling, and headed back down the hall. The bitch saw the rage in my eyes as I neared her. She knew what I had witnessed, she knew what she had done. The rookie was dumbfounded as I charged with murderous intent. He blocked my way and screamed my name. He saw the blood on my hands and uniform. “What did she do”, he begged over and over.

I swung the belt once and didn’t make contact. As I drew back for another try I saw the stomach of the she bitch, stretched to its outer limits with her next intended victim, like some over ripe pumpkin.

Suddenly my zeal for the task at hand waned. Some gears in the back of my mind stripped themselves. Somehow beating the dog shit out of this pregnant she bitch didn’t seem like it solved much.

I told the rookie to call it in and I went back to the bedroom.

I sat on the floor next to my huddled victims. The oldest daughter hugged my neck and whispered, “It will be alright”. I cried and hoped she was right. As I sat with this child, awaiting her ambulance, it was she that comforted me. She was the bravest person in that house of horrors. I was humbled by her courage.

It was she that lived this nightmare. This was her life, I was just passing through. She had become the Mother and protector of her small brothers, living their days in confusion and pain.

I realized that in her short life she had experienced more agony and torment than I had in a career of Law Enforcement.

Ambulances, Detectives, Sergeants find us important. The wheels start to turn.

I go to the hospital and I thank my rookie on the way. Once in the ER I interviewed my victims. I asked, what did you eat for breakfast and they said “Hotdogs and eggs”. I asked what they had for dinner and they said, “Hotdogs and eggs”. I asked, “what else do you ever eat” and their immediate reply was “what else is there”?

That is what I smelled, burnt hotdogs and eggs. I hate that smell to this day.

The she bitch was slightly crazy and had isolated the kids for years. There had been no outside contact with anyone and no school for the oldest. They had lived their lives locked in that flat gray ranch house.

There would be no justice tonight. The children were placed in Foster Care. This is where most Cops lose the story. The end, or what happens next, is rarely discovered. This nightmare would have another ending.

A better ending.

Some months later, during the summer, I was on the hunt. I heard a gunshot from a distance. I raced towards an intersection where I thought the shot came from. I pulled to the curb and turned off the scanner. I thumbed the radio to main freq only and lowered the window. I listened and waited. I pulled on my leather gloves.

Out the window I see three kids coming my way. A girl wearing a bright pink dress, which perfectly matched her pink bicycle. Two young boys followed, one pulling the other in a red wagon. They stopped on the sidewalk next to my car. I didn’t recognize them, still focused on the next moment. They began to talk. The middle brother said to the sister, “That’s him, that’s Deputy Mike”. The girl stared into the car. I knew her in that instant. We talked, we hugged. They excitedly told me of living with “Auntie” and how Momma was getting better. I hoped so.

Gunfire erupted two blocks over. I told them to get in the house and raced around the corner.

I never saw them again, or only in my dreams…

Golden Wires

I think we all have golden wires within us – sometimes we just need to rewire ourselves – to use what is already present.

When I was in the Desert – in the Dark – In my Despair – I had this thought.

I thought of how I am with my best friend. I pick him up and dust him off when he fails, never judgmental. I support him and his dreams, I listen and try to understand. I’m there whenever he needs me. I Love him.

And then in the Desert – in the Dark – In my Despair something in my Mind clicked. I suddenly thought if I can offer this to my best friend the golden wire is already within me. I just have to reverse the current – To be my own best friend. To use the same wire when looking inward – to never be more harsh with Self than Friend.

The thoughts continued.

I thought of how I am when I’m with a Lover. I am mindful and watchful of her and how she moves through the world. I’m always trying to find new ways to fall in love with her. How she says my name. The funny way she sneezes. If you look for scars and marks on women you’ll find that. If you are mindful for the beauties within them, if you watch for that, you may find what you seek.

Then I remembered the Golden Wires – what if I used this golden wire I offer to women to look back at myself – to be as watchful and mindful of all the beautiful things I do in a day. To expect the best from Self – To love Self. The wire is already there waiting to be used.

And finally to what deeply changed me in the village I live in. I was walking into the coffee shop on a bright morning. There, tied to a post, was a golden lab puppy basking in the Sun, it’s round belly pointed to the blue sky. As always I was overcome with a wanting to sit with this animal, to share space, to spend time together. I was in puppy love. After a few minutes I began to stand when my mind was struck with a lighting bolt – I thought if I could hold this space for any stray animal I meet couldn’t it be my first offering for anyone or anything that comes into my life. To be fully prepared to fall in Love with the next instance. I wondered if this could become my practice.

When I shared this idea some said I would be wounded by living in this state. They were wrong. This is just a beginning I offer. To expect the best and accept the worst. Honestly I think the Universe gains nothing by this practice – The current returns to me.

In this practice I found so many of you to Love. If I haven’t met you I Love you too – You just don’t know it yet.

A Meeting of the Mind

Have you ever had that internal conversation that goes something like this:

“Michael, why did you do that or – Michael why didn’t you anticipate that?”

I have a question. Who is in there with us? Who do we speak to in our Mind? I decided to think about it.

I imagine my Mind as an infinite dark place. Three low ground fires sit in a triangular space. Between the fires three torch lights illuminate the darkness from pike poles, casting shadows but ample light. In the center is a round table and six heavy chairs. A comfortable place for thinking without distraction. A place for honest discussions.

I next began to imagine who sits at the round table of my Mind. Who make up the parts of Me?

The Warrior/Protector:

I was raised to be this, the oldest Son. More than once my life has been threatened and I’ve had to fight for it. I’m hard to kill.

It is better to be a Warrior in a garden than a Gardner in a war.

The Warrior sees things only in Black and White – He seeks Respect and Honor.

The Romantic:

The Romantic is where my Hope, Dreams and Passion reside. He is awash with the color of Women and loves them all, or tries to. The writer of love letters, the artist. He is the one that types the words you read.

The Romantic can only sees the Best in everything and everybody – Always hopeful but easily wounded.

The Male Animal:

Part of me is a strong male animal chained to the ground. When unchained women love him and men fear him. I believe this is the rarest part of Me and my most celebrated. I know that someday he will be the first to die, curled in the corner, still. But today, on this day, I rejoice…

Animal doesn’t communicate in words, he is scent driven and cannot be reasoned with. He doesn’t obey orders.

The Child:

This is where my enthusiasm springs from, the child within me. Unashamed, inquisitive, open. When I lay on the ground and stare at clouds the child prodded me to do so. Some have said I seem so alive – they witnessed the child at play. He is the Flyer of kites.

The child thinks like a child.

The Dark Ones:

The ones I still search for and don’t know where to look.

The Thinker/Realist:

Everything is measured the same way by the Thinker. From Gods to used cars it all goes through a scientific way of thinking. Testable, repeatable, demonstrable and observable are always requirements. He has full veto power over whatever shit the others collectively come up with. Sometimes the Romantic will call on Animal and the Protector for support at the table but the Thinker always has override authority.

The Thinker sees things in bright light, real and exposed – often harsh – painful.

A Meeting of the Mind:

They gather again at the table of decisions. The Universe has placed another fork in the road for our consideration.

The Thinker speaks first…

Tomb of the unknown Child

I have mixed feeling about this post. I feel that I might be disgracing the memory of this child by telling of her death. But if some further good might come from it then should I post these words?

This is my Tomb of the Unknown Child.

A lifetime ago…

　
I was on the afternoon shift working 4 pm till midnight. I had enough time on the job to be considered “Senior Deputy”. After about 5 years you start to earn your pay, until then its all a learning curve. I had a rookie with me, just fresh from the police academy. I had seen his type before, a lifelong dream to be a Police Officer. Bright eyed and bushy tailed and he didn’t know shit from Shine-ola. Some make it but many don’t, always hard to predict the winners from the losers. I thought picking a career path at 5 years old was akin to setting a trap in one‘s future, often hard to un-spring.

People should be careful what they wish for. Before the shift would end this Recruit would be doubting his choice.

Fall in the Midwest can be and often is brutal. This was one of those days. A harsh freeze with blowing snow had jumped us. Wind that bites, pockets of blinding white, every footstep squeaks like rusty nails being pulled from old wood. Winter has arrived with the power and fury of a rock slide. A lifeless day when no wild thing would move without reason.

The sky was grey blue as we loaded the cruiser. I stowed my 12 gauge under the leading edge of the front seat. I blip the siren and test the overhear light. Two bulbs under a canopy of blue plastic make their slow rotation and that low whir-whir-whir sound as the rubber belt twisted its never ending course. The take-down spots on either side lit our trunks as we transferred gear. Finally I checked the medical kit, a green ammo box full of Korean War era bandages. All neatly arranged (but slightly yellowing) grey boxes, each wrapped in crisp cellophane. When opened you would find a white bandage wound as tight as a chunk of wood. Cartoon images on the package told which bandage was for what injury. Government cost cutting run amuck.

“Lights, camera, action” I called out to the recruit, “Mount up little brother”. Into the night, into the gathering storm, into another nightmare we drive. Lives would be changed and lost. Things would forever be different for all of us. I can’t remember who I was before this day.

I knew that we were in for a shitload of accidents and I needed to serve a subpoena outside of my patrol area. I cleared it with dispatch and headed for the address, which was in a rural farming community. A small town that didn’t grow beyond it’s initial footprint in the slow twitch of the past 150 years. A four corner town with mammoth oaks down both streets converging at the blinking yellow light. A beer store and a couple of old Churches. Two lanes of blacktop intersecting at 90 degree angles. A checkerboard land split into squares by wire and post. A flat place of cornfield stubble and harrow scars, tinged white by the snow swept out to the distant horizon.

The wind hissed against the wire.

We pull into our destination after a 30 minute ride. The car door yanked against my hand as I opened it. I tag the witness with the subpoena and jump back into the warmth of the always running cruiser. I told the rookie to call us back in service and returning to our area of patrol. As he did the dispatcher asked if we could check the status of an “unknown accident” not far from our location.

As I approach the yellow light intersection I expect to see mangled automobiles, as these sort of crossroads were notoriously bad for T Bone crashes and they always spread out like a hillbilly yard sale. Instead I find nothing. I’m just about to grab the mike and tell dispatch the call was unfounded when I noticed lumps in the road. I turn the car and my headlights lit this stage of horror.

“Those are people” I scream at the now wider eyed and more confused rookie.

“Fuck“, I say to nobody in particular. I can see a car up ahead, on the right shoulder, beyond the carnage. I thumb the trunk release and grab the medical kit and yell at the rookie to re-position the patrol car to close the road, start popping flares and get us some firefighters or EMT out here pronto.

I would again like to point out that I have all the respect in the world for the emergency medical personnel who experience these situations on a daily basis. I have no idea how they do it. I worked in a city and could rely on a quick response from either the fire department or ambulance, or better described, people with medical training that far outweighed mine.

That would not be the case this night. As our situation worsened so did the weather and road conditions. The radio called out a cascade of bad accidents with confirmed injuries. Dispatch had even pulled the Sergeant out of the office to handle calls.

I hear the rookie call for help and by then we both knew we had serious injuries. I was about to find out how bad.

I can remember the finest detail of the next few moments of my life and the ending of another. This is a memory that will never leave me. At times it is almost visible, like a scar. I have learned to live with it. It is part of me.

The rotating blue beacon froze falling snow in time and space like jewels in the dimming light. I start to take notice of a woman screaming. The screams come from the car on the side of the road. I can just see her rocking back and forth behind the wheel. She is screaming, not words but something more like the sounds of a wounded animal, all throaty and dark, guttural. Her screams are muffled by the windows that slowly fog over. A crimson red spider web spreads out from the center of the windshield.

Groans and moans, more animal sounds at my feet.

The father is conscious but completely overtaken by shock. He has suffered an exposed compound fracture of his femur, or upper leg bone. I’m surprised as there is little bleeding. I know that shock has removed his ability to feel the pain. He drags himself on the ground, like a dog that had been hit. I looked at my med kit and this injured human and thought, I haven’t got anything in here that will fix that, and walked towards the next victim.

I took a quick look over my shoulder and noted the rookie was back in the cruiser. I think he was suddenly re-evaluating his career choice.

Hello Mom. This family had been crossing the street together when they were struck by the screaming woman. Mom was lucky, she lost her arm, mangled at the elbow. I do have a bandage for that but she isn’t bleeding too bad either and I’ve got another victim that isn’t moving. Sorry Mom, gotta go.

“Oh no, little princess” I mumble. This final victim is a little girl child about the age of my daughter. I don’t know her name but I have thought of her every day for 20 years now. She was dressed for Church but now sprawled on the frozen asphalt, a marionette puppet with her strings cut, bright white against the swirling darkness of the road. I knelt beside her and listened to her breathing, guppy breaths, I know she is hurt bad. I scoop her head off the ground with my hand and feel broken skull. I breathed into this child and begged her to live. I screamed at her to breathe. I wish I was anywhere but here. Please live beautiful child.

After what seemed like hours I hear the wail of the approaching fire truck. I check this child for signs of life. The guppy breaths are gone. Her eyes are black pools of emptiness. I know she died in my hands. I have failed. The woman still screams in the distance, I feel like joining her.

A firefighter took over for me. I stumbled towards the ditch and toss my medical kit down the slope. I sat on the edge and fished out a Marlboro and lighter. At that time I smoked 3 packs a day, if it wasn’t bowling night. Try as I might I couldn’t get my Bic to flick. I look down and see a blood soaked cigarette and lighter in my hands. I laugh and drop them both. Behind me and around me was all the help I could use. I was trying to muster the strength to stand when a State Trooper tapped me on the shoulder, “You alright Bro” he asked. I shook my head and said, “No”. He said, “I’ll take this case, go home”.

This friend of mine and fellow officer relieved me from this nightmare, I still owe him for that. I drove the rookie to the station and radioed the Sergeant that I was going 10-7 (out of service). He didn’t ask any questions. I didn’t have any answers.

NOTE: I don’t write these vignettes of my experiences to gain your sympathy or praise. I write, this was my life, if I worked for the Circus I‘m sure it would be lighter fare. Feel compassion for these victims, these destroyed families. I was paid well for the job and always knew what I might have to do.

I couldn’t imagine being anything but the Police after I discovered life inside the tape.

I have no regrets.

Rat734

Zion and Best Friends animal sanctuary

July 11th, 2009
This is just a day ride through Zion and on towards Kanab and Best Friends Animal Sanctuary.
Weather: Nearly perfect all day until I returned through Zion. Once on the West side of the tunnel I was hit by a wave of desert heat. Temps reached nearly 100 degrees. Ride early and higher elevations.
After leaving Zion, via the East entrance station, I continued on towards Kanab. There wasn’t much traffic.
The rest of this report will be about my destination, Best Friends pet cemetery.
Best Friends Animal Sanctuary is located North of Kanab. They are a sancuary of last resort for many animals. I think they house several hundred dogs. They also care for cats, horses, birds and reptiles.
If you watch “Dogtown” on NatGeo it is about this place. They are the ones that took possession of Michael Vick’s fighting dogs and trained them for adoption. They have placed many of the dogs already.
Here is a link to their website. www.bestfriends.org
If you are looking for a way to enrichen your life move to Kanab and donate all of your time to this fine cause. You’ll be happy…
I only visited the pet cemetery. There are hundreds of pets buried here. Many with headstones and personal keepsakes. I was touched by the emotion of the place.
Caution, lumps in the throat are possible from here on out.
Painted rocks
There are also hundreds of windchimes thought out the cemetery. When they ring in unison an eerie sound fills the canyon.
I sat in the shade of a gazebo and thought about the pets of my past.
Each gazebo had a water jug and bowl for visiting animals. Being an animal myself, and having run out of water, I had some. Not sick so far.
After a couple of hours I headed back towards Zion. I stopped at the Thunderbird for a shake (that they don’t make anymore). You can still get the “Ho Made” pies though.
I made it home in time for dinner. I gave my dogs an extra scratch behind the ears.

Great Basin National Park

July 7th, 2009

I took a couple of days and traveled from Saint George to Great Basin National Park.

CONDITIONS AND INFORMATION: Great Basin is located in a very remote part of Nevada. Don’t pass up fuel or rest stops. I stopped in Pioche for lunch on the way there. Fuel and food is available in Baker.

DIRT ROADS: There are several interesting dirt roads that are south of the park. When leaving Baker I traveled many of these going from Baker towards Atlanta and then on to re-join Hwy 93. This section was over 70 miles to improved dirt roads with few hazards. All recently graded but remote. In the 70 miles I encountered exactly zero other vehicles. Be prepared.

CAMPING: Over the fourth of July many campsites were occupied. I spoke to a Ranger and learned that on July 4th and Pioneer Days (July 24) the campgrounds can get crowded. Other than those dates the park is generally one of the least visited.

ELEVATION SICKNESS: Wheeler Peak campground is above 10,000 feet. Be aware of the effects of the onset of elevation sickness (severe headache and nausea). If you are a flatlander there are two lower campgrounds at the 7,000 foot level. As I returned from a hike to the Bristlecone grove I encountered a 20 something preparing for a hike. She was puking her guts out and had not even left the parking lot.

HIKES: I recommend the Bristlecone grove trail. Three mile round trip with only about 600 feet elevation gain.

As I was setting up camp a neighbor came by for a visit.

Preparing dinner, boiling water and freeze dried beef stew, Yummy.

After dinner, time to relax and “Be”.

It was nearly a full moon so I didn’t get any star field photographs. It is said that the night sky viewing from Great Basin is some of the best to be found anywhere. The temps were perfect on the mountain (50’s at night, 80’s by day). If you get a chance visit Great Basin… :clap