One of the things I liked about being the police, was that every day was different; everyday had the potential for adventure. One summer day I got the call that an ambulance needed assistance entering a house. I activated my lights and siren, and headed, full speed, into the unknown.

Upon my arrival, I saw that the ambulance crew had broken into the house to attempt save the elderly woman lying on the living room floor. Talk about bad breaks; she had already died from a heart attack hours before the EMTs were notified by a neighbor. All that was left to do was to clean up the area, secure the house, and notify the next of kin.

In this case, that was going to be the challenge.  It seems that the daughter had gone to Germany on a two-week vacation. While she was vacationing, her father had also succumbed to the wounds of life, and passed on. There were no other relatives in the area, and no other siblings to contact, she was an only child.  The neighbor told us that the daughter was to arrive home from her trip that evening.

Talk about a challenge. Well, since I was told that the daughter still lived at home, I at least knew her final destination, so to speak. The first I needed to do was find out what flight she was on, where, and when, she would be arriving.  I noticed the answer machine flashing, patted myself on the back, case closed. Obviously, the daughter was calling mom to let her know when to expect her home.

Of course, when I hit play she was speaking German. German? I did not panic, there was a deputy on the force that spoke German. I would simply call him, he’d translated, and I’d be out for coffee and donuts in less than half an hour. Little did I know that there are different types of German; much like there are different typse of English. You know, there’s American English and the Queen’s English. There’s a whole different language in New York, then there is in Biloxi, Mississippi. Need I even mention Pittsburghese? I should think not yinz guyz.

So, plans A and B were shot. WWIC do? (What would Inspector Clouseau do?) It would seem the daughter would have left a note, ticket information, or a phone number for her parents, given that they were at death’s door. I begin systematically searching the living room, kitchen, and dining room looking for anything that might ease my pain. Nothing.

I headed upstairs; bathroom, clean. Guest room, clean with a 60” HDTV I took a five-minute break, to think. After watching a little NCIS, I continued my search. Small office, nothing; daughter’s bedroom, nothing, well nothing I will discuss here, it was a thorough search. Into the parent’s room. Jackpot!!

There, next to the bed a mahogany jewelry box. Where else would you stick important papers? I scurried around the king sized, poster bed, and skidded to a stop in front my pot of gold. I gently picked it up, looking for a door, drawer, or lid. Nothing. It was weird. It was smooth, impenetrable. I stared at my reflection in the dark brown mahogany, perplexed, and noticing I needed a shave. I began to poke, push and pull, looking for a secret latch to open the mysteries of the box. Nothing.

I sat on the edge of the bed, my feet dangling six inches above the floor, confounded by that silly box. After several minutes, I jumped to the floor and grabbed my tormentor, pulling ferociously at the top of the box. I pull that son of a gun off with my bare hands. Suddenly, the lid gave and black smoke engulfed the room. I began choking on thick smoky ash. What in the world?

There to my right, on the floor, under the bed, an envelope. Finally; I reached down, grasped and opened it, with soot covered hands. I was wearing the remains of Wolfgang Schmidt, who had passed into the Fatherland two weeks ago, and now had the company of his recently departed wife. Don’t they put people in urns anymore? Well, what’s an officer of the law to do? Right. Vacuum, and dump the bag into the box, super glue it back together, and sit outside and wait for the daughter to arrive, and give her the bad news.
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Strange, when she pulled up several hours later, she told me she had a dream about two coffins, and thought of her parents. The both died during her two week stay in Germany. It was funny, she also dreamed her dad had put on some weight while she was gone. If she only knew… 

            I used to live in an apartment, and the stories I could tell, but today I want to address one of my pet peeves about my wonderful, former, apartment complex, Stoney Creek. To say that parking is limited in my world would be an understatement. Often after returning home from a late night working, I’ve had to walk a quarter mile to my building.  While this is frustrating, it is not what has gotten under my skin.

            We often hear of the wonders of the Americans with Disabilities Act, better known as the ADA, and how it is helping the disabled.  I guess my landlord is still living in the 1940s; granted that’s how old my carpet is, but really, join the rest of the world.  My friend had a stroke and has difficulty walking and using her arm.

            We asked the landlord to designate a parking spot near her building, to make things a little more manageable. They did and painted the internationally recognized symbol for the disable in a parking spot. Granted it was blue, on black asphalt, and the size of a pizza pan, but what the heck. Problem solved, right? Not quite; no one could see it, and we spent much time contacting the landlord about the issue. The police were, well more about them later.

            I learned that to get a “real” handicap parking space for her, we had to buy the sign, which I did.  When it arrived, she took it to the office for them to put up.  She was informed she also needed to buy the hardware and pole to place it on. (I should mention that this is a standard at Stoney Creek if you need handicapped parking.) After purchasing that, it was grudgingly put up. Problem solved, right? Not really. You may find this hard to believe, but people are lazy and ignorant. I know, shocking!

            So you have a group of disabled apartment dwellers, each with their own purchased sign that has the parking permit number displayed for the entire world to see.  Recently, the situation has gotten worse, the allegedly normal people either can’t read or don’t care, or both, and have been parking in the disabled parking spots. There is nothing quite like watching someone with a disability struggle with a wheelchair through the snow covered lot, or a stroke victim trying to carry groceries a quarter mile to their apartment, while a healthy person hops out of their car and jogs into his apartment building. FYI-handicapped parking is not there to make your life easier, but for those who actually have a disability.

            Enter the protectors of the downtrodden, enforcers of the law, the Bethel Park Police Department. At first they would come and write a ticket for a sign violation, but after the second time down, things changed. First it was a private lot, and then it was the sign didn’t post a warning of being towed or fined, and then finally, it was the fact that the symbol on the ground wasn’t the correct size.  Basically, they couldn’t be bothered to “serve and protect.”

            As a result, if you come at the right time of the night, thanks to an ever caring landlord too cheap to put the “correct” signage up, and the less than zealous Bethel Park PD, you can watch a re-make of Michael Jackson’s Thriller video, as the disabled struggle to get to their apartment buildings over a snow covered, icy, pothole filled, uneven parking lot.
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            As for the police, of which I was one of years ago; if I hear I need to be understanding or sympathetic to their plight and difficulties of the job; all I’ll say is this, you’re only as good as the criminals you protect.

(My attorney assures me that the statute of limitations has passed.)

A long time ago in a distant land . . .
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I spent a year as a Metro Transit Officer in Washington, DC.  Then I spent time as a Deputy Sheriff in the Land That Time Forgot.  Culvert County, Maryland.  It has gotten bigger and more modern since I left; in fact, just last year they got streetlights.  I remember one conversation I had with a local; in which we discussed the lack of a mall, only one movie theater, and how upsetting it was that they took, “Green Acres,” off the county’s PBS system. The highlight of the conversation?

“You know there isn’t one escalator in the entire county,” I stated.

“Escalator? Escalator? What’s an escalator?”  

“Moving stairs…”

“Oh.”

Sorry for the digression…

After a year in DC, I left to become a Deputy Sheriff. I had to take some extra training as when I was with the Metro Police I rode the subway, in Calvert I’d be in a car, or, as they like to call it a MOP, Mobile Observation Platform.  Once I had completed my intense training of driving around, finding the good places to eat, sleep and hide from the general public, I was cut loose.  On my own cruising, the mean streets of Calvert County.

Well, there I was in my Mobile Observation Platform, on Rt. 4, looking for speeders.  Now there are several ways to do this, for the big boys, there’s radar, for others VASCAR, but for me there was pacing.  Pacing is when the deputy, me, follows a speeding vehicle for about 2/10ths of a mile, pacing their speed.

After pacing a blue 2 door Chevy for 2/10ths of a mile I activated my emergency equipment, lights and siren for those of you not familiar with cops.  The vehicle pulled over to the shoulder of the road, I got out of my Mobile Observation Platform, and things went bad.

As I was exiting my vehicle, my mace canister bumped the door lock. Ever notice how life becomes a slow-motion sequence at times?  Unfortunately, I had already given the door a gentle push and watched the door slowly click shut. I stood there, listening to the traffic pass by, and prayed silently, that through some magical intervention, that my door was a jar. So, there I was, vehicle running, lights and flashers on. Undaunted, and deep in prayer; I turned and introduced myself to the driver of the speeding Chevy.

Hello, I’m Deputy Parks of the yada-yada-yada, you were traveling at yada-yada-yada, license and registration please.  I slowly walked back to my car, this was the moment of truth, my defining moment as a deputy and, yes, my friends, it was locked.

What to do?  Call for assistance? Let the entire county know I’d locked myself out of my car?  Be fodder for harassment for the rest of my career?  What would Inspector Clouseau do?
I calmly walked back to the driver of the Chevy.

“Ma’am there is a sight problem.  I need you to drive me to Headquarters.”

Fortunately, the station was only a minute away.  I snuck into the station, grabbed the extra set of keys, snuck out the door and had the lady drive me back to my deserted car; on the side of the road, with the lights still flashing.

I unlocked my car, gave her my thanks, swore her to secrecy, and a warning always make sure she exited her car with the keys.
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         What is it with turns and tunnels in this town?  Is there some unwritten law that requires a driver to slow down or stop at these confusing sections of the road?  Don’t you hate travelling down the road when some yo-yo puts on his blinker then stops to make the turn?  Is there some fear that your vehicle may knock the world off its axis if you take the turn too fast?  Instead of turn signals maybe we should just put hit me signs on the rear ends of vehicles in the Pittsburgh area.

            I don’t understand why drivers feel the need to slow down when entering the tunnels.  Are they opening and closing like a hazard at a mini-golf course?  There is a need to judge entry into the tunnel so your car isn’t crushed?  Maybe there is an invisible windmill spinning in front of the tunnels that only Pittsburgh drivers can see.  I don’t get it. I have yet to hear of the tunnels being closed due to a windmill blocking traffic.  However there have been numerous accidents caused by people on LSD trips slowing for windmills and getting rear ended.  People Don Quixote does not live in the Pittsburgh area.

            Another thing that boggles my mind is the invisible stop signs in the mall parking lots.  Take Century III Mall for example; there are several “T” intersections, with a two-way stop.  For some unknown reason the traffic that doesn’t need to stop, stops.  Why? How the hell should I know? The mall has been there over thirty years and the traffic patterns haven’t changed.  I often wonder how people pass their driving tests.  Look my friend, you don’t have a stop sign, do not stop, go, and as your making a turn chances are you’re only driving 5 mph anyways.

            Thank God the majority of bridges in and out of the city have stop lights.  Could you imagine the panic and traffic problems if there were no traffic control devices?  Holy crap if a tunnel brings mini-golf nightmares to drivers, what fears could suspension bridges bring to the driving public.  There would be so many rear end collisions the city would have to change its name to Pegasus, not that there is anything wrong with that . . .
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            Look, quite simply; if you are turning, entering a tunnel or going to the mall, don’t slow down or stop; just keep driving.
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           I wish harm to no man, or woman.  However, motorcyclists seem to ask for it, yet ask us to be aware of their presence on the road.  I know you’ve seen them, “Share the road look twice motorcyclists are out,” or “Watch for Motorcycles,” signs in yards.  Yet as we travel the highways and byways of this great land, it is the motorcyclist that is taking advantage of our kindness.

            You’ve seen them.  You’re stuck in traffic, and here comes a motorcycle weaving through the parking lot that was Rt. 51.  Am I able to do this? No. First of all the man van is too wide to fit through most areas, and the wife won’t allow it.  However, if I could, I’m sure one of Pittsburgh’s finest would not hesitate to pull me over and hand me a citation.  When was the last time you saw a motorcycle pulled over for weaving through traffic.

            Here’s another thing that bothers me about motorcycles, cars, and the law.  If I’m in my car, I, and any passengers I may have, have to wear a seatbelt. It doesn’t matter if I have airbags, side airbags, upper airbags or the car fills with foam peanuts upon impact. No seatbelt, paperwork and a visit to the magistrate.  Yet if I’m on a motorcycle I don’t even have to wear a helmet.  To the best of my knowledge there are no seatbelts or air bags on a motorcycle.

            Who is more likely to suffer life threatening injuries upon hitting a tree? Right; the guy on the bike. Even if I’m not wearing a seatbelt, I’ll travel no further than the hood of my car.  The guy on the bike could end up in the next county.  If he has the freedom to make bad choices and suffer the consequences, why can’t I?  This is America, isn’t it?
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            All I know is that there are no seatbelt check points for motorcycles.  If I have to stop at such a check point, what do you think the cop would say if I was wearing a helmet and no seatbelt? I can tell you what he’d say, “Have you been drinking?"
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What is it with people and driving? When the sun is out people drive like nuts, buzzing around and through traffic, reenacting their favorite NASCAR memories. When it rains, drivers seem to lose their minds, and they seem to have a temporary brain cramp when on the road. However, it is the snow that causes people to lose all sense of sanity.

            A snowfall brings out several different types of drivers; each one is dangerous in their own right. My favorite, and the one I will be discussing today, is the ‘Story Driver.” This is a person that on a beautiful spring day would refuse to get behind the wheel of his, or her, car, because it is a pain to run to the store. Yet, the first snowflake stirs the call of the wild and a need to bring some much-needed excitement to their lives.

            Many years ago, I was working at Shop ‘n’ Save. Our store was on the top of a slag heap, and there was always a twenty mile-an-hour wind blowing. In the summer, you could see tumbleweeds rolling across the parking lot. One winter, a blizzard invaded the Pittsburgh area, the snow was blowing sideways and four foot drifts were covering the parking lot. Government officials were encouraging everyone to stay home. Salt trucks were stranded all over the county, and, needless to say, our store was empty, but open.

            We were trying to talk sense to management about closing; when through the window, lights appeared in the parking lot. It was, it was a car. The vehicle stopped, and a bent old man got out and began pushing his walker through the snow. He entered the store and vanished to the produce department. Five minutes later, the guy is at in the checkout line with one avocado. ONE AVOCADO!!

            While in line he tells me how treacherous the roads were, about the vehicles off the road, salt trucks stuck, power lines down, and traffic signals that weren’t working. He complained that our parking lot needed plowed and salted, and I should have shoveled and salted the sidewalk in front of the store, not to mention the tennis balls on his walker were soaked. It was the longest five minutes in my life. Add a chaser of perplexed, to the dumb look I’m usually serving up on my face, and you get a real clear picture of my interest and feelings for the Marco Polo of the South Hills.
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            I watched as he and his avocado, pushed their way through the blowing snow and slush towards his 1983 Buick Regal. I shook my head as his tail lights vanished in the white curtain of snow. In the distance, I could hear the lonely wail of a police siren, and I wondered what one could do with one avocado… 
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Every couple of weeks I head to Century III Mall while my lady gets her nails and toes done. I always go to the food court to hang out and write. Today, I was struck by the emptiness. Perhaps it had something to do with the aches and pains I’ve been feeling as another birthday approaches.

Nostalgia is a good thing when you’re young remembering Christmases, concerts, and crazy things you did just out of high school. Nostalgia as you get older is rough. Friends you hung out with have moved, lost touch, or died. Events of the past, in some cases, seem like they happened to someone else, or you might have seen them in a movie.

Back in my younger days I’d sit in the food court for hours, observing the people, and happenings throughout the day. Some of my best comedy bits came from the research accomplished over a piece of pizza, a burger, a gyro, or maybe some Chinese, and a large Pepsi. Now the only activity is the occasional bird flying by, or the Silver Sneakers Club shuffling through the mall.

The question isn’t, “Where’d the time go?” It’s, “Where did we go?” I mean really, we may have a few aches and pains, a few scars from life, but basically, we are the same youthful folks we were decades ago. Do we act our age, because that’s what is expected? Do we rein our younger side in so society doesn’t think we’re a “crazy old coot,” or have we just surrendered to the battle that is life?

As I sit here I can remember all the various food choices, families, couples, buddies, and the lonely dude with the note pad and pen. If you worked in the mall you would eat lunch or dinner, then head to Wolfie’s or the Oyster House to eat and have some laughs. None of that exists anymore. The mall is easily 95% empty, and fading fast. It’s funny, the mall, just like us looks a little worn on the outside, but for the most part is structurally sound; and when you think about it is still pretty impressive.

Time marches on, and in time, I expect to see tumbleweeds rolling through this place, and eventually my visits to the once fertile mind field will end. It will be a sad day, but I’ll still smile as I rock on my porch watching my fish float around in the pond, as I remember my days at Century III Mall with Mark, Ken, Daryl, Evelyn, Lucene, Dean, Joe, Darlene, Walter, and Fast Eddie…

Time it was
And what a time it was, it was
A time of innocence
A time of confidences 
Long ago it must be

I have a photograph
Preserve your memories
They’re all that’s left you.

​“Bookends”
Paul Simon
 

One of the things I liked about being the police, was that every day was different; everyday had the potential for adventure. One summer day I got the call that an ambulance needed assistance entering a house. I activated my lights and siren, and headed, full speed, into the unknown.

Upon my arrival, I saw that the ambulance crew had broken into the house to attempt save the elderly woman lying on the living room floor. Talk about bad breaks; she had already died from a heart attack hours before the EMTs were notified by a neighbor. All that was left to do was to clean up the area, secure the house, and notify the next of kin.

In this case, that was going to be the challenge.  It seems that the daughter had gone to Germany on a two-week vacation. While she was vacationing, her father had also succumbed to the wounds of life, and passed on. There were no other relatives in the area, and no other siblings to contact, she was an only child.  The neighbor told us that the daughter was to arrive home from her trip that evening.

Talk about a challenge. Well, since I was told that the daughter still lived at home, I at least knew her final destination, so to speak. The first I needed to do was find out what flight she was on, where, and when, she would be arriving.  I noticed the answer machine flashing, patted myself on the back, case closed. Obviously, the daughter was calling mom to let her know when to expect her home.

Of course, when I hit play she was speaking German. German? I did not panic, there was a deputy on the force that spoke German. I would simply call him, he’d translated, and I’d be out for coffee and donuts in less than half an hour. Little did I know that there are different types of German; much like there are different type of English. You know, there’s American English and the Queen’s English. There’s a whole different language in New York, then there is in Biloxi, Mississippi. Need I even mention Pittsburghese? I should think not yinz guyz.

So, plans A and B were shot. WWIC do? (What would Inspector Clouseau do?) It would seem the daughter would have left a note, ticket information, or a phone number for her parents, given that they were at death’s door. I begin systematically searching the living room, kitchen, and dining room looking for anything that might ease my pain. Nothing.

I headed upstairs; bathroom, clean. Guest room, clean with a 60” HDTV I took a five-minute break, to think. After watching a little NCIS, I continued my search. Small office, nothing; daughter’s bedroom, nothing, well nothing I will discuss here, it was a thorough search. Into the parent’s room. Jackpot!!

There, next to the bed a mahogany jewelry box. Where else would you stick important papers? I scurried around the king sized, poster bed, and skidded to a stop in front my pot of gold. I gently picked it up, looking for a door, drawer, or lid. Nothing. It was weird. It was smooth, impenetrable. I stared at my reflection in the dark brown mahogany, perplexed, and noticing I needed a shave. I began to poke, push and pull, looking for a secret latch to open the mysteries of the box. Nothing.

I sat on the edge of the bed, my feet dangling six inches above the floor, confounded by that silly box. After several minutes, I jumped to the floor and grabbed my tormentor, pulling ferociously at the top of the box. I pull that son of a gun off with my bare hands. Suddenly, the lid gave and black smoke engulfed the room. I began choking on thick smoky ash. What in the world?

There to my right, on the floor, under the bed, an envelope. Finally; I reached down, grasped and opened it, with soot covered hands. I was wearing the remains of Wolfgang Schmidt, who had passed into the Fatherland two weeks ago, and now had the company of his recently departed wife. Don’t they put people in urns anymore? Well, what’s an officer of the law to do? Right. Vacuum, and dump the bag into the box, super glue it back together, and sit outside and wait for the daughter to arrive, and give her the bad news.
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Strange, when she pulled up several hours later, she told me she had a dream about two coffins, and thought of her parents. The both died during her two week stay in Germany. It was funny, she also dreamed her dad had put on some weight while she was gone. If she only knew… 
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