Politics is in my DNA (next to the Montreal Canadiens). I am a third generation political junkie, I have 2 degrees in Political Science with a specialty in Canadian government and spent much of my academic career trying to understand Quebec separatism since I was an anglo in Quebec during the FLQ. I am a happy camper during election campaigns. This one scares me.
My mother likes to remind me of my first political involvement. We were living in Vancouver, and Trudeau-mania was sweeping the nation. A mob of teens was standing on a corner near our house shouting "North, South, East, West, Trudeau, Trudeau he's the best!" I stood on my front lawn and sang along. I was 5.
I remember winning a school-wide quiz in grade 4 or 5, because I was the only kid in the school to correctly identify a picture Mayor Jean Drapeau. We had moved back to Quebec by then. My parents had been talking a great deal at dinner about the fallout from the FLQ and Expo 67. If I wanted to say anything at dinner, I had to follow politics, because it's what we talked about.
My family are hard-core Liberal supporters. In what was no doubt a rebellion, by high school, fuelled in large part by Joe Clark's Red Tory views, I had become a Progressive Conservative. My grade 12 History teacher, Mr. De la Frenier, treated his students like adults and let us debate him if you could substantiate your point. He was Liberal. I was Conservative. We had many spirited debates. I was 17 when the Clark government fell and I was devastated that I couldn't vote.I still have the letter I received in response to the impassioned missile filled with youthful optimism that I had sent to Joe Clark to encourage him. I met him when I was in university and still have the autograph. I cleared him through customs a couple of times. To this day, I don't believe he got the respect he deserved, and considering what followed, his policies were more sound than he's ever been given credit for. Truth be told, though, I've always championed the underdog.
Through high school and university I was a passionate member of the Progressive Conservatives. I served on the executive of the campus association, I worked on election campaigns at municipal, provincial and federal levels, and I was on two Grossman leadership campaigns. I have a photo circa 1984, taken by a professional photographer from the floor of the first leadership campaign when Larry Grossman was defeated by Frank Miller. I am decked out head to toe in Grossman garb, I have a six-foot fishing rod sticking out of my pocket because I was the "flag point" for rallying the supporters on the floor, and I have a walkie-talkie stuck to my ear. The photographer caught me as the vote tally came in leaving Larry on the final ballot, and my smile is radiant.
I have worked at the staff level and the riding level on a number of campaigns, and learned some things about strategy and dirty tricks along the way from the likes of John Laschinger and Hugh Segal. I still have a handwritten thank you note from Laschinger-and since I used to run Grossman's autopen, I can tell the difference. I also learned some things about the workings of the Conservative party, and after a series of deceitful events, I cut up all my membership cards, including my PC Canada card, and haven't been a card carrying member of any party since the late 1980s.
I believe that the Government of Canada has a responsibility to protect the members of society least able to do that. I believe that our First Nations people, our seniors, our mentally or physically challenged, our children and our poor deserve respect and assistance. I believe that affordable health care should not be tied to income level. I believe that an education shouldn't put you into thousands of dollars in debt. I believe that professionals who immigrate to Canada should be able to practice their profession without having to start over and deliver pizza to feed their family. I believe foreign-trained doctors should be expedited, not forced to jump hurdles. I believe that there are ways to be fiscally responsible without cutting social programs. I believe that Canada needs to return to a role of mediator and peacekeeper on the world stage. I believe that corporations need to be better corporate citizens and I believe the Government has a fiduciary responsibility to make policies that protect citizens from excessive profit at the expense of common sense.We have only to look to the US and the Fanny May and Freddie Mac mess to see the wisdom in THAT. And I believe in the tradition and institution of Parliament. It may not be perfect, but it's what we have.
As much as I disagreed with much that Pierre Trudeau did, his "government has no business in the bedrooms of the nation." resonated with me. As much as I disagreed with Jean Chretien, his stance on the Iraq war against George Bush Senior was the right thing to do in my mind. Considering what Mike Harris did to Ontario after Bob Rae, "Rae days" did not seem like such a bad idea.
We currently have a leader of the Conservative Party who is seeking a majority in the House of Commons. Stephen Harper's government has been found in contempt of Parliament for the first time in history, his supporters and inner circle have been charged with elections violations and document tampering, and who prorogued Parliament twice to avoid non-confidence votes. While I don't particularly like Michael Ignatieff, his comment in the English debate to Stephen Harper that Harper shuts down anything he can't control resonates with me. Under Harper, creative artists, writers and musicians have seen changes to copyright legislation that would change fair use guidelines to cut into our increasingly small copyright royalties. He has cut arts funding and ensured that literary magazines strangle. Most creative people in Canada do not support the Conservatives. This is a leader who wants the press to call the government the Harper government rather than the Canadian government. This is a man who stated that "ordinary people don't support arts funding", painting the whole creative community as elites who drink champagne at black tie galas. I don't know many of my colleagues who go to black tie galas-we couldn't afford the babysitter if we did and many of us couldn't afford the ticket to go in the first place.
Under Harper, Ontario and BC now have HST. And despite his campaign ad to the contrary, cutting the GST had no impact on my family and my business. Adopting HST did because my fee for services increased by 8%, because I now have to charge HST on my business services. In this electronic age, I cost more than my colleague with similar qualifications in another province. It could make a difference in my getting a job. Under Harper, a national daycare plan was scrapped in favour of $100 a month, which only lasts until a nanosecond after your child turns 6. You tell me where I can pay $100 a month for daycare, and I will move my family there.
If Harper has made these policies with a minority government, God help Canada if he gets a majority. While he takes credit for the economic recovery, much of what saved Canada was the stringent financial regulations that were put in place by the Liberal governments which preceded him.
I am very torn in this election. I know I will not vote Conservative. What I don't know yet is how I will vote. I like Jack Layton and I normally vote NDP, but our local candidate isn't very strong. I don't like Michael Ignatieff, but we have a strong Liberal candidate. I like Elizabeth May, but there are huge parts of the Green Party platform that I am not comfortable with. I will vote, but I may be standing in the ballot box before I know how. Right now, it's a battle between my head and my heart.
What I do know, is that there is a lot of truth in the saying "absolute power corrupts absolutely." I hope we don't find out just how much truth there is.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Friday, March 4, 2011
Grief
It's a funny thing, this business of grieving. There is no timeline, no right or wrong way, and no warning when a wave of grief will hit you.
I've been catching up on overdue filing and purging old paperwork because "Hoarders" is starting to look a little too much like my basement and spare room. As I sorted through a pile of papers, I found the last birthday card my Mother-in-law sent to me. She always dated her cards. I also found last year's St. Patrick's Day card. She was the only person I know who sent St. Patrick's Day cards. I'll miss that, and so will Dave.
I also found the copy of the eulogy that my cousin Glenn gave for his brother, Murray on Labour Day weekend, 2010. For various reasons, I was not able to attend the service in Field, BC, and I have yet to forgive myself, although I did give a valiant attempt to find a way to do it before giving up as reality and obligations trumped my need to say goodbye in person. While I blinked back tears at the St. Patricks Day card, Glenn's comments about Murr opened the floodgates and picked the scab off the grief that had diminished.
We all grieve in our own way. There is no timeline, no "proper" way. There is only loss and pain and finding our way through to the other side. The only way to get through it is to go through it, and the journey is personal.
Tears remind us of the loss, but also of the love. Tears remind us that, even though finite, we loved and were loved by a special person. Tears remind us that sometimes now is all we have. Grief and loss never goes away; over time it diminishes to a sad acknowledgement rather than a raw open wound. And the time it takes is whatever it takes for whoever is grieving.
I need to remember that sometimes.
I've been catching up on overdue filing and purging old paperwork because "Hoarders" is starting to look a little too much like my basement and spare room. As I sorted through a pile of papers, I found the last birthday card my Mother-in-law sent to me. She always dated her cards. I also found last year's St. Patrick's Day card. She was the only person I know who sent St. Patrick's Day cards. I'll miss that, and so will Dave.
I also found the copy of the eulogy that my cousin Glenn gave for his brother, Murray on Labour Day weekend, 2010. For various reasons, I was not able to attend the service in Field, BC, and I have yet to forgive myself, although I did give a valiant attempt to find a way to do it before giving up as reality and obligations trumped my need to say goodbye in person. While I blinked back tears at the St. Patricks Day card, Glenn's comments about Murr opened the floodgates and picked the scab off the grief that had diminished.
We all grieve in our own way. There is no timeline, no "proper" way. There is only loss and pain and finding our way through to the other side. The only way to get through it is to go through it, and the journey is personal.
Tears remind us of the loss, but also of the love. Tears remind us that, even though finite, we loved and were loved by a special person. Tears remind us that sometimes now is all we have. Grief and loss never goes away; over time it diminishes to a sad acknowledgement rather than a raw open wound. And the time it takes is whatever it takes for whoever is grieving.
I need to remember that sometimes.
Friday, February 18, 2011
Building a snowman
Sometimes the universe throws you a bone. I've been preoccupied and stressed lately, trying to build a marketing strategy for myself, while dealing with my husband's continued grief over losing his mother and the new challenges we are facing with our daughter. My throat goes into spasm when I'm really stressed, and I've been trying to ignore it, although it's painful and makes eating a challenge.
Mother Nature is playing a game of "now you see it, now you don't" with Southern Ontario. The last couple of days have been positively balmy, with temperatures well above 0 Celsius. When I picked my daughter up from school on Wednesday, she grabbed a mittful of snow and asked:
"Mommy, is this good snowman snow?"
My daughter had not yet learned to build a snowman. Oh sure, she'd stacked piles of snow up and made a reasonable facsimile, but she hadn't yet learned how to roll the snow from tiny to big snowball, how to stack it properly, and lift the head without knocking off the middle piece. The sun was shining. We had swimming lessons but not for a couple of hours. I made a split second decision and told her to go in the backyard, I was going to throw the stuff in the house and I'd meet her there. She looked at me suspiciously for a second to see if I was kidding, and then sprinted for the backyard.
I didn't even bother to change into mitts, so I made a snowman in my good leather gloves. I showed her how to roll the snow, and then she went off to try her own hand at it while I finished my first snowman in about 40 years. I'm a bit out of practice, but my daughter was delighted with the finished result.
We stayed out until my daughter's snowpants were soaked through, my leather gloves were soaked through and our cheeks were rosy and our noses running. For the first time in a week, the spasm in my throat released. After a while, I stood on the deck and watched while my daughter carved a den out of the side of the big pile of snow. She was focused and attentive to detail, and made a great job of it.
When she was satisfied with the results, we headed inside to have cookies and hot chocolate before heading out to swimming lessons.
Sometimes, you just have to forget about everything for a time and help your kid build a snowman.
Mother Nature is playing a game of "now you see it, now you don't" with Southern Ontario. The last couple of days have been positively balmy, with temperatures well above 0 Celsius. When I picked my daughter up from school on Wednesday, she grabbed a mittful of snow and asked:
"Mommy, is this good snowman snow?"
My daughter had not yet learned to build a snowman. Oh sure, she'd stacked piles of snow up and made a reasonable facsimile, but she hadn't yet learned how to roll the snow from tiny to big snowball, how to stack it properly, and lift the head without knocking off the middle piece. The sun was shining. We had swimming lessons but not for a couple of hours. I made a split second decision and told her to go in the backyard, I was going to throw the stuff in the house and I'd meet her there. She looked at me suspiciously for a second to see if I was kidding, and then sprinted for the backyard.
I didn't even bother to change into mitts, so I made a snowman in my good leather gloves. I showed her how to roll the snow, and then she went off to try her own hand at it while I finished my first snowman in about 40 years. I'm a bit out of practice, but my daughter was delighted with the finished result.
 |
| mom's snowman |
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| Kid's first snowman |
Sometimes, you just have to forget about everything for a time and help your kid build a snowman.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Feeling like a Mamma bear
We knew about these choices. We researched the implications. We accepted the risks, and we adopted our amazing little girl. The clinical evaluation is a far cry from the reality of the challenges my daughter will now deal with.
We started to notice behaviours over the summer. Given her genetic history, we acted immediately. The pediatrician expressed amazement that we had noticed and acted on it so early. I know my kid. I know what she does and now I know why. It is what it is, and we'll deal with it.
I'm struggling with rage right now. I know the birth mother was terrified that no one would adopt her child because of her drug use. She thanked us again and again for accepting her baby, while we thanked her again and again for giving her to us. The choice to make an adoption plan is never easy, and it's what will get me through this rage. She made bad choices, and then made a loving choice for the future of her child. I'll get back to grateful, but I need to be mad just a little longer.
My protective instincts have kicked in and I'm on Mamma Bear high alert. I will educate myself, and then I will educate others, and advocate for my kid. She wondered a bit about the big words the doctors were using because we were talking about her. I told her all it meant was we all have different ways of coping with life. I stress eat and write. Grandpa buries himself in work. Grandma worries. And now we know what she does. It's not wrong. It's not weird. It's just her way of coping with life and we will just explain that to other people.
Nothing has changed. My wonderful child is still my wonderful child. My instincts were right and now we move forward, coping and adapting to whatever comes. But don't mess with Mamma bear.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Indulgences
I took a bath this morning-an epsom salt and bubbles, grab the book and shut the door kind of bath. Instead of my usual weekday run through the shower and go, I poured a hot-as-I-could-stand, sink- in-with-a-sigh-and-figure-out-how-to-get-out-later, all-that-was-missing-was-a-glass-of-wine kind of bath...at 11am on a Wednesday morning.
This was so out of the ordinary that my old, deaf 19 year old tabby came into the bathroom to investigate and hopped up on the rim of the bathtub to keep me company. This in and of itself was extraordinary, because since the arrival of the new, frisky female cat, he's stayed in our bedroom for the most part. While she is making friendly overtures to him, he is having none of it, and has been sulking since her arrival. I suspect he was concerned that I had finally tipped over the edge and risked running into the other cat to investigate. (She is at the vet being neutered. She was in heat this weekend, and drove him crazy with unwanted affection. He was appalled.)
I've been mired in shoulds lately. Since I was a child, bubble baths and books have been a favorite escape to destress and recharge. I would fill the tub to the brim and disappear alone with a book and bubbles, and sometimes, candles and a glass of wine. Since the arrival of my small child, however, solo bubble baths have become a thing of the past. I've tried it a couple of times, and the relaxation value is greatly diminished by the addition of a non-stop talking child, a dozen bath toys and a never-ending chorus of Hannah Montana's greatest hits. Besides, she splashes and soaks the pages of my book.
I was getting ready to take my normal shower this morning. Kid was at school. Husband was at work. Cat was at the vet and I had a few precious hours of peace and quiet to work. As I reached over to turn on the shower, the plug fell into the drain. The universe gave me a sign. The old cat came in around then and meowed at me. I thought I wish I could have a bath...followed by, "Well, why the hell not."
I've been feeling anxious and stressed, my throat in spasm and my jaw has clenched so much that my teeth hurt. I grabbed book and my reading glasses, bubbles and epsom salts, and the phone, just in case. I filled the tub, sank into the bubbles and did something just for me. It was selfish, it was a waste of precious alone time when I should be working, or starting to get my taxes together, or venturing into the black hole under my daughter's bed...and instead I let the epsom salts and bubbles work some magic as I read a Debbie McComber story and relished in her way with words and characters and plot. I let the water cool to tepid, and pet the old cat who chose to share the time with me.
I forget to take care of myself sometimes. I forget to make selfish decisions to put myself first. I forget to honour the woman and person that I am. For one small space of time, I let go the reins of control and escaped into a book.
Today, I took a bath in the middle of the day. By myself. And I don't feel the least bit guilty.
This was so out of the ordinary that my old, deaf 19 year old tabby came into the bathroom to investigate and hopped up on the rim of the bathtub to keep me company. This in and of itself was extraordinary, because since the arrival of the new, frisky female cat, he's stayed in our bedroom for the most part. While she is making friendly overtures to him, he is having none of it, and has been sulking since her arrival. I suspect he was concerned that I had finally tipped over the edge and risked running into the other cat to investigate. (She is at the vet being neutered. She was in heat this weekend, and drove him crazy with unwanted affection. He was appalled.)
I've been mired in shoulds lately. Since I was a child, bubble baths and books have been a favorite escape to destress and recharge. I would fill the tub to the brim and disappear alone with a book and bubbles, and sometimes, candles and a glass of wine. Since the arrival of my small child, however, solo bubble baths have become a thing of the past. I've tried it a couple of times, and the relaxation value is greatly diminished by the addition of a non-stop talking child, a dozen bath toys and a never-ending chorus of Hannah Montana's greatest hits. Besides, she splashes and soaks the pages of my book.
I was getting ready to take my normal shower this morning. Kid was at school. Husband was at work. Cat was at the vet and I had a few precious hours of peace and quiet to work. As I reached over to turn on the shower, the plug fell into the drain. The universe gave me a sign. The old cat came in around then and meowed at me. I thought I wish I could have a bath...followed by, "Well, why the hell not."
I've been feeling anxious and stressed, my throat in spasm and my jaw has clenched so much that my teeth hurt. I grabbed book and my reading glasses, bubbles and epsom salts, and the phone, just in case. I filled the tub, sank into the bubbles and did something just for me. It was selfish, it was a waste of precious alone time when I should be working, or starting to get my taxes together, or venturing into the black hole under my daughter's bed...and instead I let the epsom salts and bubbles work some magic as I read a Debbie McComber story and relished in her way with words and characters and plot. I let the water cool to tepid, and pet the old cat who chose to share the time with me.
I forget to take care of myself sometimes. I forget to make selfish decisions to put myself first. I forget to honour the woman and person that I am. For one small space of time, I let go the reins of control and escaped into a book.
Today, I took a bath in the middle of the day. By myself. And I don't feel the least bit guilty.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Blank Slate
I completed one of my favorite rituals this morning. It's 2011, so time for the new calendar to go up, and the old calendar to be retired.
I am a planner. I need to know what I am doing, when I am doing it and how long I am doing it for. I can be spontaneous-just tell me when and I'll mark it on the calendar. I don't do impromptu. I live by the creed "if you're coming to see us: come in. If you're coming to see the house, call 2 weeks ahead and avoid the cupboards."
My husband is not a planner, so I have assumed the social convener role for the family. I keep track of my work deadlines, my husband's appointments, my evening activities and meetings, my mother's appointments that require transport and what days of the week my daughter is in school because she's still on a variable schedule. I keep track of birthdays, anniversaries and other important (sad) dates that might recall a quick phone call or e-mail to let people know we remember and we care.
Every New Year's Day, I'm faced with a blank calendar. All those lovely, blank squares full of potential-it's enough to make a planner giddy with anticipation. I have a system. First I transfer the birthdays and anniversaries from my calendar in my purse to the wall calendar, and then to the new purse calendar, although I usually buy a 2-years-at-a-time calendar for my purse so that I'm not scribbling future dates on a piece of paper. Then I colour code the calendar with the days that my daughter is actually in school, shaking my head at the dubious wisdom that has her in school exactly 1 Friday for the month of January. Then I add my choir schedule, the PWAC monthly meetings, and any appointments that have already been established for the new year. It doesn't take long to fill up the squares.
I always take a few minutes to flip through the outgoing calendar.In the hustle-bustle of life, it's easy to forget the year that has just exited, although for my family, 2010 will not be one we forget. My husband and brother in law lost their mother, my daughter, her grandma, my father-in- law, his wife and I lost my funny, kind, loving mother-in-law who remembered dates better than any calendar, knew and understood what 2nd cousin once removed meant and marked every trip she had ever been on by the food that she ate. She vaguely remembered the landmarks, but the pecan pie..oh the pie. She's left a big hole in our lives that won't ever be filled. I lost 2 acquaintances to cancer, and I lost my brother of my heart to Hepatitis C. A quick glance through the calendar's entries for the funerals I sang at in 2010 shows we weren't the only family struggling with a not-so-festive Christmas.
2010 is gone. 2011 is new, shiny and like the blank spaces on my calendar, gleaming with potential and anticipation. I wish you blank days to enjoy as you wish. I wish you happy occasions, parties and gatherings to fill your days with. I wish you work opportunities, prosperity and good health.I wish you an abundance of good news, leisure time, and enough money, time, friends, health and happiness to fill your lives with love, positive feelings and energy, and prosperity.
I wish you enough of whatever it is that will enrich your life. Happy 2011.
I am a planner. I need to know what I am doing, when I am doing it and how long I am doing it for. I can be spontaneous-just tell me when and I'll mark it on the calendar. I don't do impromptu. I live by the creed "if you're coming to see us: come in. If you're coming to see the house, call 2 weeks ahead and avoid the cupboards."
My husband is not a planner, so I have assumed the social convener role for the family. I keep track of my work deadlines, my husband's appointments, my evening activities and meetings, my mother's appointments that require transport and what days of the week my daughter is in school because she's still on a variable schedule. I keep track of birthdays, anniversaries and other important (sad) dates that might recall a quick phone call or e-mail to let people know we remember and we care.
Every New Year's Day, I'm faced with a blank calendar. All those lovely, blank squares full of potential-it's enough to make a planner giddy with anticipation. I have a system. First I transfer the birthdays and anniversaries from my calendar in my purse to the wall calendar, and then to the new purse calendar, although I usually buy a 2-years-at-a-time calendar for my purse so that I'm not scribbling future dates on a piece of paper. Then I colour code the calendar with the days that my daughter is actually in school, shaking my head at the dubious wisdom that has her in school exactly 1 Friday for the month of January. Then I add my choir schedule, the PWAC monthly meetings, and any appointments that have already been established for the new year. It doesn't take long to fill up the squares.
I always take a few minutes to flip through the outgoing calendar.In the hustle-bustle of life, it's easy to forget the year that has just exited, although for my family, 2010 will not be one we forget. My husband and brother in law lost their mother, my daughter, her grandma, my father-in- law, his wife and I lost my funny, kind, loving mother-in-law who remembered dates better than any calendar, knew and understood what 2nd cousin once removed meant and marked every trip she had ever been on by the food that she ate. She vaguely remembered the landmarks, but the pecan pie..oh the pie. She's left a big hole in our lives that won't ever be filled. I lost 2 acquaintances to cancer, and I lost my brother of my heart to Hepatitis C. A quick glance through the calendar's entries for the funerals I sang at in 2010 shows we weren't the only family struggling with a not-so-festive Christmas.
2010 is gone. 2011 is new, shiny and like the blank spaces on my calendar, gleaming with potential and anticipation. I wish you blank days to enjoy as you wish. I wish you happy occasions, parties and gatherings to fill your days with. I wish you work opportunities, prosperity and good health.I wish you an abundance of good news, leisure time, and enough money, time, friends, health and happiness to fill your lives with love, positive feelings and energy, and prosperity.
I wish you enough of whatever it is that will enrich your life. Happy 2011.
Friday, December 3, 2010
Police, Fire and other misunderstood people
This blog is inspired by, and a tribute to a police officer I chatted with today. There is an officer at the same physio therapy clinic that I attend, and I happened to hear him telling another patient about how he was injured. He had been on a routine traffic stop in the middle of the night, when he was hit by another car. I can't remember all the details, but I believe he broke both legs and a bunch of other things. Countless surgeries and physio later, he remains on the police force, although his days in a cruiser are over.
He happened to end up on the bed beside me today, and my daughter, who had been checking out the clinic's Christmas tree, kept arriving with music notes, treble clefs and other booty that I was concerned she was pulling off the tinsel rather than "finding on the floor" as she claimed. Taking full advantage of a situation, I pointed to the officer and told my daughter that "the gentleman beside us is a police officer, and you will be in trouble if you are taking the tinsel." The physio assistant commented that I was putting the officer on the spot, and I maintained that I was simply taking advantage of a teaching opportunity.
My daughter settled in a corner to colour and the officer asked me how I knew he was a police officer. He was polite but was wary and had an edge in his voice. He was probably going through the perp file in his brain trying to place me. I told him that I had heard him relating how he'd been injured, and then I said the magic words. "I have a lot of respect for you guys." I then explained that I'd been a former customs officer and commented that you have to have done that line of work to really appreciate how hard it is.
We then chatted about shift work, the loony tunes who come out at full moon and spending DRs in court, only to have the accused change their plea to guilty on day 2 of the voir dire. He commented that everyone thinks firefighters are great, and rightly so, but no one ever wants to see a police officer. My comment: "until you need one. Like any professions, the 5% that are rotten ruin things for the 95% who are stellar."
My friend's father was a police officer in Vancouver-original drug squad, original dog squad, original high school liaison. Worked his way up to commissioner. I was taught to respect police officers, and they were someone to go to for help. I've never been on the other side of the law, except for the occasional traffic ticket, so I've never feared the police. I understand what he was saying, though.
I wrote a weekly crime column when I was first freelancing. I wrote about the speeders, the drunks and the just plain stupid criminals. I got to know some of the officers on the Guelph Police Service and the Wellington OPP. I shook my head at the people who should have been charged with being an idiot, and the hours that were spent on routine patrol in the middle of the night to keep the rest of us safe. Because I've worked in law enforcement in Customs, I've always been fairly pro-cop. What that means as well, is that I have zero tolerance for the bad eggs that make the good ones look bad by association.
The next time you are stopped by a RIDE program, instead of cursing the police officers standing out in the cold freezing to protect us from the idiots who still think it's fine to drink and drive, why not say a prayer for the protection of the officers, and thank them for keeping us safe.(We lost a family friend to a drunk driver when I was kid. She was in a Pinto, and was hit from behind. yep, the Pinto lived up to its reputation. Drunk driver walked away without a scratch. Karen was killed instantly.) I will never forget the face of the police officer the night I rolled up to the RIDE check and thanked him for keeping us safe. He was so used to abuse that he had no idea what to say in response.The astonished smile was worth it to me.
The officer that inspired this blog is going back to active duty. He'll be manning the front desk to free other officers to go out on patrol.A routine police stop changed his life forever but in true police fashion, he's manning up and dealing with it. I've seem his grimace in pain at physio, and I've seen the scars on his legs from surgeries. I've never heard him complain and he tells his story in a matter-of-fact way. I doubt his family was that matter-of-fact when the accident happened. I wonder if the driver who hit him was.
So here's my shout-out to the police, fire and paramedics who keep us safe. They aren't paid enough to be hit, kicked, punched or puked on in the line of duty. They aren't paid enough to enter burning buildings or to have to tell someone that their loved one has passed away. They aren't paid enough to lug overweight people down icy steps, or 3 story walk-ups. They certainly aren't paid enough to deal with drunks, druggies, kiddy diddlers, wife abusers, con artists who prey on seniors and the other scum of the earth that routinely cross paths with the law. And yet, they do it day after day, night after night, week after week, month after month, year after year. They have to deal with trauma and the very worst of human nature, often at the eventual expense of their own health, sleep and mental state. I remember talking with a police officer in Toronto who had to investigate a child abduction and murder. His child at home was the same age as the victim and he started checking on her multiple times a night He was haunted by the little child who had been brutalized and murdered. I doubt his story is unique.
Thank you to the police officers, the firefighters, the paramedics and other first responders, the ER nurses and doctors, the crisis workers, the family and children's services workers and everyone else who work in the tough professions that keep us safe.Thanks for your dedication, your protection and your help when we need it. I wish you peace. I wish you safety. May God bless and protect you.
He happened to end up on the bed beside me today, and my daughter, who had been checking out the clinic's Christmas tree, kept arriving with music notes, treble clefs and other booty that I was concerned she was pulling off the tinsel rather than "finding on the floor" as she claimed. Taking full advantage of a situation, I pointed to the officer and told my daughter that "the gentleman beside us is a police officer, and you will be in trouble if you are taking the tinsel." The physio assistant commented that I was putting the officer on the spot, and I maintained that I was simply taking advantage of a teaching opportunity.
My daughter settled in a corner to colour and the officer asked me how I knew he was a police officer. He was polite but was wary and had an edge in his voice. He was probably going through the perp file in his brain trying to place me. I told him that I had heard him relating how he'd been injured, and then I said the magic words. "I have a lot of respect for you guys." I then explained that I'd been a former customs officer and commented that you have to have done that line of work to really appreciate how hard it is.
We then chatted about shift work, the loony tunes who come out at full moon and spending DRs in court, only to have the accused change their plea to guilty on day 2 of the voir dire. He commented that everyone thinks firefighters are great, and rightly so, but no one ever wants to see a police officer. My comment: "until you need one. Like any professions, the 5% that are rotten ruin things for the 95% who are stellar."
My friend's father was a police officer in Vancouver-original drug squad, original dog squad, original high school liaison. Worked his way up to commissioner. I was taught to respect police officers, and they were someone to go to for help. I've never been on the other side of the law, except for the occasional traffic ticket, so I've never feared the police. I understand what he was saying, though.
I wrote a weekly crime column when I was first freelancing. I wrote about the speeders, the drunks and the just plain stupid criminals. I got to know some of the officers on the Guelph Police Service and the Wellington OPP. I shook my head at the people who should have been charged with being an idiot, and the hours that were spent on routine patrol in the middle of the night to keep the rest of us safe. Because I've worked in law enforcement in Customs, I've always been fairly pro-cop. What that means as well, is that I have zero tolerance for the bad eggs that make the good ones look bad by association.
The next time you are stopped by a RIDE program, instead of cursing the police officers standing out in the cold freezing to protect us from the idiots who still think it's fine to drink and drive, why not say a prayer for the protection of the officers, and thank them for keeping us safe.(We lost a family friend to a drunk driver when I was kid. She was in a Pinto, and was hit from behind. yep, the Pinto lived up to its reputation. Drunk driver walked away without a scratch. Karen was killed instantly.) I will never forget the face of the police officer the night I rolled up to the RIDE check and thanked him for keeping us safe. He was so used to abuse that he had no idea what to say in response.The astonished smile was worth it to me.
The officer that inspired this blog is going back to active duty. He'll be manning the front desk to free other officers to go out on patrol.A routine police stop changed his life forever but in true police fashion, he's manning up and dealing with it. I've seem his grimace in pain at physio, and I've seen the scars on his legs from surgeries. I've never heard him complain and he tells his story in a matter-of-fact way. I doubt his family was that matter-of-fact when the accident happened. I wonder if the driver who hit him was.
So here's my shout-out to the police, fire and paramedics who keep us safe. They aren't paid enough to be hit, kicked, punched or puked on in the line of duty. They aren't paid enough to enter burning buildings or to have to tell someone that their loved one has passed away. They aren't paid enough to lug overweight people down icy steps, or 3 story walk-ups. They certainly aren't paid enough to deal with drunks, druggies, kiddy diddlers, wife abusers, con artists who prey on seniors and the other scum of the earth that routinely cross paths with the law. And yet, they do it day after day, night after night, week after week, month after month, year after year. They have to deal with trauma and the very worst of human nature, often at the eventual expense of their own health, sleep and mental state. I remember talking with a police officer in Toronto who had to investigate a child abduction and murder. His child at home was the same age as the victim and he started checking on her multiple times a night He was haunted by the little child who had been brutalized and murdered. I doubt his story is unique.
Thank you to the police officers, the firefighters, the paramedics and other first responders, the ER nurses and doctors, the crisis workers, the family and children's services workers and everyone else who work in the tough professions that keep us safe.Thanks for your dedication, your protection and your help when we need it. I wish you peace. I wish you safety. May God bless and protect you.
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