For Better or Worse?
I spend a lot of time trying to discern if things around me are better or worse. There is no middle ground, at least in my mind. Sure, there’s a sage slogan spouted freely about things changing so much that they stay the same, but I don’t normally spend time in that specific space.
Comparisons are the crutch of the simple-minded, and my thoughts fall firmly in the camp of the simple. I like it here. I’m not telling you that I shrink away from an argument with the brilliant who walk among us, but I’m happy talking to people who like to simplify things rather than make them more difficult.
It is rare to find a brilliant conversationalist with more than one or two favorite subjects on which they focus. It makes sense because it’s tough to keep up with all that’s happening in the world.
I like to think of myself as a master generalist, but most would see me as a master of generalizations. I accept the moniker.
Truthfully, there are many days that I believe things are worse than they’ve ever been. But those days only arrived after I spent too much time listening to pundits, news readers, commentators, and politicians— on rare occasions.
My most rewarding experiences come when I run into people I’ve never met and engage in conversations about which I know nothing. Those are the moments that I learn something.
Sitting with friends over frosty mugs of something or other is comforting, but we tend to rehash everything we’ve all experienced.
Still, relaxation takes over, and on many days it’s pleasant to be surrounded by the people who unconditionally accept you as you are. I enjoy dropping my guard for a while, and I bet you do too.
We cannot discount the positivity of times when it’s okay to be silent and nod during a conversation with trusted friends.
Silently nodding and engaging with compadres is also a tool for the simple-minded; let us be clear. However, nodding never makes you look stupid. Other ways to express interest include:
- Squinting.
- Tilting your head back and exhaling slowly.
- Knitting your eyebrows a bit.
- Inhaling, and then holding your breath while nodding. Purse your lips slightly to add a feeling of angst.
Now that you have tried each of these strategies, all alone, as you read, which one works best for you?
I need to be clear about why this is my topic today. You’ll never guess how I happened upon something this deep and meaningful.
I was perusing Facebook and saw that the newest Hyundai Santa Fe had added third-row heated seats as an option. The following ad showed me that a mini-split heat pump system is available for those who want to self-install one in their home.
So some things are better, and our lives seem to improve exponentially— yearly— in the area of helpful technologies. Kids with warm buns and homeowners not being subjected to the chance of being taken advantage of by an unscrupulous installer are positive and impactful in everyday life.
Beyond technology making some lives better, I think it negatively impacts others, at least equally. We could take a deep dive into it, but suffice to say that you only need to observe your aging parents try to navigate a new smartphone to start nodding your head in agreement with me.
Some things are better, and some things are worse, bringing us back to the more things change, the more they stay the same. I’ll keep working on my theories, and I’ll keep nodding my head. Watch for the subtle exhalation. Sometimes, I do it purely out of frustration with just about everything.
I’ll close out with some sage advice from Thomas E. Petty; I think you’ll be able to nod in agreement. Feel free to knit your eyebrows.
“Some days are diamonds
Some days are rocks
Some doors are open
Some roads are blocked
Sundowns are golden
Then fade away
But if I never do nothing
I’ll get you back someday.” (From “Walls”- songwriter, Tom Petty)
From the Jagged Edge of America, I remain.
Tim Cotton
A Lesson Learned from the Smug Dog in Front of Me
Reminders to slow down during tumultuous times are evident but often overlooked. We are humanly tuned to look for the next big thing. I was only reminded of this last night when I saw him looking back at me.
I idled in traffic for what seemed like way too long. Staring at the glowing red light holding back my line of traffic kept most of my attention, and I was talking to myself.
A frequent passenger only recently brought to my attention that I tend to grumble while sitting at lights. Before this, I was immune to my sometimes humorous self-supplied banter, but now I hear all of it. It was better in the old days.
As I telepathically transmitted a curse of weeklong traffic jams to those professionals who had timed the lights, I glanced to the right. There he was.
Smugly staring back at me and possibly hearing the things I had been saying through my open passenger side window, his judgment was palpable. I could tell he was enjoying the moment of respite from what was his windblown throne installed in the kingdom of the best day ever.
With one ear cocked in my general direction, his opposite furry ear-pan was stowed downward in silent mode. I felt that he was able to block out all other current issues to focus his attention on the mope behind him. He sniffed the air from time to time. But then he would slowly turn his head —as if to pan a camera— back toward me when he determined there were no winds carrying news of current events that might demand his attention.
We locked our gazes in a staredown, but I know I blinked before he did. He wasn’t upset with me, but it was clear that he was also transmitting a message that maybe things weren’t bad at all. The clouds were retreating above us, and the sun was peeking through for the first time that day.
I suspect he was enjoying a break from the rushing wind and tear-filled eyes that always impact his journey, and he wanted a respite from the grumbling heard behind him. A moment of silence from the roar, and the insects, oh the insects, bouncing off his snout. The stop had given him time to think, enjoy, and thrive.
Trips, for him, are never self-initiated. He waits impatiently for all excursions through his kingdom. He’s caged inside until a willing household member takes the jingling keys from the hook beside the door.
He was soaking in this blessed moment in time. I was whining about it.
I got his message. I refocused.
I am pleased to travel— freely— whenever I want. I open and close any windows in my car on a whim. Changing directions is as easy for me as changing the music coming from the stereo. I could stop whenever I felt the urge. And snacks? I could pull in most anywhere for a stick of jerky and a cold Coca-Cola.
Traffic began to creep toward the intersection. The dog turned his attention to what lay in front of the car— to what was next. Sure, there was a chance that the driver would roll up his window at the wrong moment, and his human would always supply his supper on their personal timetable, not his. Still, this was his kingdom, and he would reign supreme for at least a few more miles.
I backed off a bit as we got up to motoring speed. He paid no further attention to me, the mortal behind him. His ears were slicked backward by the slipstream, and he focused on the here and now, delivered to him by a thirty-two-mile-per-hour breeze.
Accepting—maybe embracing— circumstances beyond his control had changed me, at least for a short time. I learned a valuable lesson from the dog right in front of me.
Thanks for reading my stuff, preordering my next book, and for your support for the newslog through the BMAC app. You folks keep this train running, and I appreciate it.
From the Jagged Edge, I remain,
TC
NO VACANCY
The sign sends a clear message from a distance. It doesn’t impact me, not even a little. I don’t know why I pay attention to the signs. Nosey? Maybe. But I like to refer to my habit as being inquisitive.
I want to see if the business owner is having a good summer. For that, the word NO has to be illuminated. For a tired tourist, business person, or lone traveler, observing the glaring NO through a rain-dappled windshield must be a kick in the ribs when their back is sore, their eyes are tired, and they want a hot shower and an unfamiliar bed.
I check the vacancy sign at all restful roadside respites; I’ve been doing it all my life. Growing up in the 60s and 70s puts me in the station wagon generation. We were the riders, the complainers, the sleepers, and the dreamers. I have heard, “Dad, I need to pee,” thousands of times.
We didn’t stay at motels. For some reason, I felt that motels were for the wealthy. We were always heading to someone’s house—more than likely, a relative who was expecting us.
I don’t feel cheated or saddened. I don’t feel anything. My thoughts turn to the others traveling along the same roads in front of me and behind me. Some check the signs with a hopeful squint; others don’t care. I check the signs.
Clarity about my habit came to me on a weekend trip to Eastport. I was the rider, just like I was when I was a kid. I don’t need to talk to anyone when I am riding. I am delighted just looking out the side window. I like music, and if it keeps the conversation down to a minimum, I like the music a little louder than many would consider palatable. It’s a defense mechanism against too much discussion. I’d be happiest not talking to anyone while riding if forced to tell the truth.
Most of the motels on my route are long closed. Cracked asphalt with sprigs of brown grass reaching out like tendrils sent a clear message that there was no need to stop. These are dilapidated six to ten-room motels that closed forty years ago. Those were the days of the manual vacancy sign. Someone physically would leave the office and uncover, or cover, the word “NO” depending on occupancy.
The walk toward the sign must have been pleasurable when you owned the place, especially if it happened early in the evening. I visualize them heading back to the apartment behind the office and getting their meatloaf supper early, before the evening news. It was probably sometime in June, July, or August. They were kings.
When we were a bit older, my parents would rent a suite at the Wedgewood Arms now and then. We probably would have driven from our home in Machias to Bangor, maybe to shop for school supplies. My three sisters and I would stake our claims in the small, disinfected rooms. I was the lone male, so I camped on the couch in the living room. Being in the only room with a television and all the doors to the inner sanctum being closed for slumber reasons, I watched the late movies.
I prayed for (Yup, literally) a Jerry Lewis movie to be the feature; those upwardly mobile requests were frequently granted. Through the drafty plate glass windows looking out over that balcony perpendicular to Bangor’s Main Street, I could see the glow of NO on the belly of the sign. For a while, I was royalty, and no one else would be walking across my balcony that night.
I long for a world where the messaging is simple, clear, and concise. Even while I do not need to stop, I’ll always watch for the signs. It’s my connection to the simplicity of my past. Turn up the radio, keep your voices down, and pay attention to the signs.
May your summer road trips reveal vacancy signs at precisely the right time.
From the Jagged Edge, I remain,
TC
Thanks for all the support at BuyMeACoffee. The group of regulars I named “The Royal Order of Dooryard Visitors” has grown a little over the last couple of months. I appreciate the regular support for my writing efforts. The one-time “coffees” are a real boost to my morale as well. Thank you to everyone who decided that reading some words from a mope is worth a sip of dark goodness. Yes, Ellie gets her biscuits, and she also sends her thanks.
So Long, Sweetheart
A comfortable and lonely silence has settled on the cabin in the woods.
While alone time is high on my list of must-dos, it’s been a treat to have the Significant One here with me, at least for the majority of the time since I became a man without a full-time job. She flew back to her career several times, but overall she’s been here. She was cooking healthy choices, alluding that I should shave at least once every three days and mentioning that the shower stall needs more than a cursory wipe-down each week.
We walked about a mile and a half a day on dirt roads while conversing about where and when we would see one or both of the whitetail deer family units. We pointed at eagles and the osprey. Oh, and we picked raspberries. She floated on her newest inflatable luxury raft, and Ellie swam in circles around her while I sat in my chair and turned the pages in books that I never thought I would get to finish.
It’s been a good summer.
I got the automatic Uber texts this morning after she landed on the tarmac of her concrete world. The notifications are sent to my phone whenever she rides with a car service; it’s not a bad idea. Tomorrow she will begin to handle many long phone calls, each loaded with a new problem to solve, a new issue to contemplate and resolve. She probably won’t be slapping mosquitoes.
With the mute button activated, I’ll keep my phone on the for-now cold woodstove. I only call people back at this stage. It’s better for me than answering with my mind full of other things. Most people don’t want you to pick up anyway.
Today has been a hot and quiet day. The grass seed is finally taking hold over the newly buried septic tank, and I still have more rocks to move. Today it was just too warm and sticky to think about those things. The fishing was slow, but so was I.
We went into full it’s-too-hot-to-do-that mode. Ellie swam and rested on the lake’s edge, and I got through a few more chapters. Supper became a clean-up of several partial dishes of this and that. They have been refrigerated and waiting for hot, quiet days when it’s far too warm to cook.
Chili dogs with leftover bacon and one half of a Saran-wrapped beefsteak tomato was but a short repose from my month of fresh salads and chicken grilled multiple ways. I’ll do a full-fledged haunting of the produce section in a couple of days. I’ll be squeezing things and looking for brown spots on others, trying to stay out of the way of true enthusiasts of fruits and vegetables
Darkness comes faster in August. The vast shoreline only whispers the echoes of summer inhabitants who were forced to return to their own ringing phones and the overly-paved universe where many dwell, not by choice.
Tonight, it’s Boston’s first album on the Bluetooth with a heavy backup sound from crickets, and Ellie sacked out beside me on the old green couch. I can get back to writing with purpose in the next week or so. I will take a northern swing—to the top of Maine—over the next few rainy days. I need to see some family. I’ll probably do some fingerpainting and swinging with the youngest and prettiest Cotton.
I am not saying goodbye to summer, but I am contemplating how I will tell her that she should be doing a little laundry and packing up a few things. It’s never too early to prepare for the time when she must go.
Be well.
From the Jagged Edge, we remain,
TC
&
Ellie.
Thanks for all the support for the books, donations at the BuyMeACoffee app, and the wonderful notes of support. I appreciate you all so much.
Tim
The Unmitigated Joy of a Midday Shower
I’m not sure if it was my first, but it won’t be my last. The lack of specific directions on how to survive in retirement has allowed me to use trial and error; this was no error.
I showered at noon.
I went to work when I was fourteen, eight years old if you count mowing Sylvia Mintz’s lawn on the corner of Jefferson and Prentiss. I have told stories of attempting to collect my two dollars in pay on the Jewish Sabbath; it was a clear and concise way to find out that you don’t bother Mr. and Mrs. Mintz on a Saturday afternoon.
Sylvia apologized later for speaking to me harshly, but I told her I was so sorry. By the time her apology came, the neighboring protestants had already given me the rundown of what I had done wrong. Mom and dad schooled me on our Sunday vs. their Saturday sabbaths when they found out I had knocked— loudly— on an interior entry door of the Mintz homestead.
I digress.
In all my years of working, I’ve showered at the typical times for a working man. Early mornings, late afternoons after arduous labor, and upon rising at around ten p.m. to head to work for a midnight shift. You know, the standards.
Noontime showers were never considered an option. Yesterday, I found out that showering at noon is an option, and my bathroom was constructed in a way that makes this specific moment a delightful encounter with a hot stream of water and my favorite soap.
I returned from the woods to the main house (also a Maine house) to mow the lawn, do some laundry, see my parents, and get the mail. I started on the grounds around ten a.m. After the movement of static displays of my general laziness (shuffling the canoe, moving the equipment trailer, and rolling around a fire pit), I got the lawn and the weed whacking done.
I then determined it was time to shower. Upon entering the cleaning chamber, I couldn’t believe how bright and sunny it felt. Overhead, the skylight emitted such a delightful beam of warm sunshine that it felt like I was entering the kingdom of heaven or—at least— the shower room of the same.
I should be clear that I don’t know if we are to enter the kingdom of heaven naked, but it stands to reason that we will. Come in naked and broke and go out the same way. It seems consistency is in order, or, at least, the order of the universe.
The skylight in the bathroom is barely noticeable during the times I have typically showered. In early mornings, it’s just dark. In the late afternoon, it sheds light on the tiny room, but a light bulb (or three) is still needed to illuminate the spots that need the most attention.
Obviously, at midnight, the room needs the attention of the bulbs as well.
Oh, but at noon? No electricity is needed; just me, a warm beam of sunlight, a bar of soap, and the atrociously out-of-shape body the good lord provided for me.
I will note that I have lost seven pounds since my official retirement; I think it’s all because I no longer have a desk where I can settle in. I have also kept active, moving rocks, taking walks, and generally staying in motion for the better part of most days. The world is now my gym, and we both need a lot of work. Staying out of restaurants for meals is also a big help. It’s evident that when you stop working full-time, you cut back on paying for meals, most of which formerly included french fries.
I looked at my watch during the cleaning phase of the showering process. It was just a couple of hairs past high noon. The beam was a great place to clean up, and I’ve never had that experience with the skylight that— in the past— was only expected to shed ambient light, maybe a slight breeze when you left it open a crack.
It’s a small thing, but small things are big things when peered at through a stream of hot water and a sunbeam.
I have determined that so many joys about the retirement years are spoken of and written about, but the unmitigated joy of a midday shower hasn’t been one of them.
Consider it done.
From the Jagged Edge of America, I remain,
TC
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Mistakes Not Oft Forgotten (Part Two)
I leaned against the cruiser while pushing the door tightly against the roofline. I subconsciously tried to crush the rubber weatherstripping tight to the frame. I felt it might mitigate any of our conversations from being heard inside the passenger compartment of the Chevy. The occupant had already been told—by me— her aunt had passed away in the horrific crash but that her mother had survived.
To give a death notification is akin to a bad dream. To reissue the statement with the clarification that you were wrong the first time is a world-class nightmare. My mind was working, searching, really, for a strategy to take back everything I just said. No one else would deliver the news that the woman’s mother was gone. I contemplated how it would go and considered that telling her that her aunt was alive would somehow make it better. That worked—I thought—the first time through when I had said to her that her aunt had passed away but that her mother was alive. There was no way the opposite was true.
I got back into the driver’s seat and slammed the door behind me. I did it quickly, maybe to build up the courage to spit out the bad news rolling around in my mouth like dry crackers and sawdust. I avoided eye contact—at least for a minute— with the woman in the passenger seat. I observed a van slowly pulling up to the scene, and I could see on the side of the van the company name of the business where her husband worked as a tradesman. I felt some relief with the thought that at least he would be here to console her after I pulled the rug right out from under her life.
I prefaced the bad news with an introductory statement that I don’t even recall now. It’s foggy. It’s been murky for years. I know it was inadequate for the situation, but it’s all I had. I told her that we had been given the wrong information and that it was her mom who had passed away due to the accident. Her aunt was alive. I apologized several ways, ensuring not to throw anyone else under the bus. She didn’t know them; she didn’t hear it from them. It was me, and only me, who had spit out the wrong information.
I recall that she was gutted by what I said. I expected her to strike me, and I was prepared to take as many blows as necessary; she didn’t. She wept because we weep when our mom passes. The pain? I don’t know. I couldn’t feel anything for her. I could only sit stupidly, trying to come up with something else to fill the void. You know I couldn’t. I could just sit. I probably reached out to rub her shoulder again, but I don’t remember that either.
Her husband arrived and took over the duty of consoling her. I spoke to him, but only briefly. I don’t remember what he looked like, but I remember them walking back to his van, probably to go to the hospital. The day didn’t end there, but my time with them did. I had to continue with witness interviews, measurements, traffic control, and paperwork. The physical wreckage of that day was cleaned up in a few hours.
I have been to some horrific events; I did pretty good work. Since that day, I can’t count the number of death notifications I have given, but I can tell you that the lesson learned that day has taught me that you don’t rush into things. You pause, you double-check, you ask again. Then you ask again.
While this job is based on the mistakes made in the imperfect lives of others, I’ve managed perfection in all notification tasks since that day. That one moment still stands out. It improved future events, but there’s no going back to repair the damage done. Whether that damage was to the family or me, it stands, as is, forever.
This is where many readers feel I need a pep talk, a pat on the back, a consoling set of words to make me think that I did my best. I don’t want it, and I don’t need it. I write things honestly about my career, but pep talks don’t fix the mistakes. I’m not beating myself up over it; I am reflecting on it; I’ve done so for over thirty years.
So much so that I looked up that accident about a year ago in a regional database. I found the crash, just the pertinent details, though. There is nothing jotted down about the daughter’s name, for she was not part of the official accident documentation. I remember her address, but you don’t dig around in a database for personal information without an official reason to do so. I let it lie. I let it die. I’ve always wondered about how things went after she left. I’ve always wanted to apologize to her for not doing my best work.
I’ve told that story to a few cops. I tell it, so they will strive to do their best work, especially when giving death notifications. I tell them that if a person wants to strike out at you during a death notification, suck it up. Let it happen. The strikes will become hugs, but our job is to be the stalwart individual, at least for a few horrible minutes.
Three days before I retired, I was sitting in my almost empty office. I think I was going through hundreds of yellow sticky notes I’ve kept gathered in piles, believing I might need the information again. The sun was beaming in, and I was looking toward the door where I had a stack of boxes to take out to my car when I had a moment.
Our heating and cooling guru, a pleasant man I have never spoken to more than a few times, walked in and asked if I had a minute. I’ve been in multiple different offices over the years, and he has been in all of them trying to fix things. When the heat pumps in the building go haywire—and they do, a lot—our maintenance crew calls this fellow. We have joked about different things, but I never took the time to learn his name. He’s always been funny. He seems to get it that cops know nothing about heating and cooling. Usually, he is on a ladder with his head stuck inside the ceiling panels.
All he said was that he wanted to congratulate me on my retirement. He also wanted me to know that his wife said thanks for everything.
I asked him to hum a few more bars. He reflected that I had covered the accident in Hampden a long time ago when her mother died; her aunt was in the car too.
I swear, the hair on my neck stood up. I had just told this story to one of the guys over a coffee conversation no more than a week prior.
I stood at my desk and reached out to shake his hand, I learned his name, and he told me his wife’s name. I told him, briefly, that the accident had been on my mind for a long time, over thirty years to be specific. I asked him if he felt it would be appropriate for me to call his wife if it was okay with him. He assured me that it was. He gave me her number and told me where she works now.
I did ask him why he never brought this up over the last ten or twelve years; he didn’t have a specific answer. He told me that his wife just wanted him to tell me thanks for how I handled that day.
He walked out and continued his work like nothing at all had happened. I sat for a few minutes and watched the traffic on the street below. After a few minutes of reflection, I got up to move those boxes to my car. After all, it was finally time to move on.
From the Jagged Edge, I remain,
Tim Cotton
Postscript: For the sake of the privacy of the lady and her husband, I have chosen not to share names or details about follow-up. The fact of the matter is that I have not reached out to her yet. Sometimes, we get closure in ways that cannot be defined. I do have her name and number on a post-it note. I’ve put it in a safe place.
Thanks for visiting my site, reading my stuff, and donating to keep it happening. I appreciate it so much.
TC
Failures Not Oft Forgotten (Part One)
Several things have brought this story to light. I wasn’t going to write it. I have many reasons, some rather personal, but I decided to leave this out of my previous books because I was still dealing with some angst over it. None of that matters; it’s an issue with which I have to deal. Something miraculous happened during my last two days as a police officer that allowed me the freedom to write the story. But I’ll share more on that later.
The deadly collision happened in 1992, and not a week goes by that I don’t think about my failure. It was a collective mistake, a horrible comedy of errors that garnered no laughs. I was the last man in line during a shoddily played pass-it-on game.
You’ve played it; a group of kids gather in a circle and then whisper a brief tidbit to the person to their right or left. In the time it takes to go from one person to the next, a few times, the information becomes garbled and typically ends up being completely different than the first person’s statement.
Sometimes a man cannot decipher, let alone explain, the things that haunt him. I’ve made some big mistakes, many forgotten, but not this one. Since that sunny day over thirty years ago, I’ve delivered some very difficult death notifications. It’s always an ugly task, even when you have no connection to the unwilling participants who are silently praying that you are wrong. That day, I gave a young woman the horrific news that her aunt had just lost her life in a car crash. The thing is, I was wrong.
The dispatcher blurted out my radio number, “306!”
After you’ve worked with someone for a time, you can detect the nuances of stress in their voice. Within a millisecond, I knew I was not receiving a barking dog complaint. The higher-pitched voice directed me to a bustling intersection where a loaded dump truck had just struck a sedan broadside. Reports of multiple injuries were coming in, and at least one person was found trapped inside the car. Not much more information was available. She had toned out the ambulance and firefighters as well.
I’d been a cop for over three years, and my right hand was reaching for the primary control switch for the Whelen lightbar even before she got all the information out. I flicked it to the far right—to the number four position—which turned on every emergency light, wig-wagging headlights, and the siren on full-wail mode. I mashed the accelerator pedal in unison with the flick of the switch.
The Chevy downshifted and sucked in massive amounts of air to compensate for the sudden dump of fuel down its cast-iron gullet. Small block Chevrolets had no peer in the elegant—yet visceral— sound emitted while producing the torque needed to hurtle you toward your destination.
The scene was worse than I expected. Uninvolved motorists had already surrounded the mangled car, and the dump truck was lying on its side. The driver of the truck was fine.
I could smell the acrid aftermath of a nasty crash: diesel fuel, antifreeze, overheated asbestos brake linings, and hot macadam pre-baked—then gouged deeply by sliding steel— in the afternoon sun.
The intersection has excellent visibility in all directions. That summer, there had been at least one other fatal crash when a driver misjudged the distance between themself and the oncoming vehicles hurtling toward them from both east and west. I shook my head in amazement each time I covered an accident there because it seemed impossible that drivers couldn’t discern their timing better. Redesigned a few years later, engineers added traffic lights to help folks make better-informed decisions. That summer, they were on their own and doing poorly.
One woman was deceased, one was transported to the hospital with serious injuries, and firefighters struggled to extract a young female passenger from the back seat. Her screams only added to the palpable horror that the scene visually suggested. She was later freed and had very few injuries. Thankfully, her screams appeared to be based on an understandable fear rather than pain.
One bright spot; a local physician stopped to help out on-scene. A competent doctor, she also served as a medical examiner when needed. It buoyed my spirits and let me focus on doing my investigation rather than getting in the way of the rescuers.
A Bangor police sergeant, who later became my supervisor at BPD, arrived to give me a hand clearing up the mess. A woman who arrived on the scene told me it was her family in the car. Her mother, aunt, and I believe a cousin or niece. Some details have faded while I have passed away the time. I know that after the initial mayhem, I had her sit in my cruiser to keep her calm. I parked to the north of the crash scene, so we faced away from the wreckage. I was informed quietly by other rescuers on-scene that they had identified the deceased individual as the woman’s aunt.
I double-checked this detail as I wanted her to have the most accurate information. The physician concurred. They had her driver’s license photograph and were positive on the identification.
Sitting in a cruiser across the center console from a grieving family member is probably the worst-case scenario for giving a death notification. Since she would need to go to the hospital to be with her mother and the young lady, who I believe was her niece, I determined it would be best to be completely honest. We had contacted her husband at work; he was coming directly to the scene to be with his wife.
I was clear and concise with her. I put my right hand on the lady’s shoulder and told her in my best consoling tone that her aunt was the person killed in the collision. She was upset but knew that her mother was still alive and currently on route to be cared for at the hospital.
Both of the scenarios are horrific. But if you give any human being a choice—and we seldom are given one——they will select their mother as the person they need the most in the future. Emotions become garbled and confusing in moments like that one. I remember her eyes; tear-filled but understanding what I was telling her. Maybe she also understood my low skill level in the ‘delivery of terrible news’ department.
I cannot say that she seemed relieved, but she did seem to take a more comfortable breath as she cried. Suddenly being thrust into an incident dealing with losing any family member is horrific; having a kid-cop share that with you in his best ‘I understand voice’ doesn’t make it much better. I turned down the Motorola police radio to a level that I could hear, but she would not be able to understand, and we waited together for her husband to arrive.
I struggled to hear the conversation between the mobile paramedics and rescue crew on-scene. There seemed to be confusion about who they were transporting to the hospital. I did my best to listen to the details, but my stomach turned over in place when I put it all together. It took a couple of minutes, but I surmised exactly why the Bangor Sergeant was now quietly tapping on my cruiser window. I felt that vomiting— right then— would show zero inner fortitude, so I turned to my left as he stood just to the rear of my B-pillar. The look on his face confirmed that the horrible day was worsening. I can only imagine the look he saw on mine.
I told the woman that I would be right back and that I was sure her husband would be there shortly. I think I said that to lift my spirits, not hers. I was hoping for the arrival of someone better at consoling another human than I was.
The story is precisely like the astute among us have surmised; the women in the car were sisters heading to visit the lady—now— sitting in my police car. The two women in the crash looked almost identical, being very close in age and appearance. The rescuers had misidentified the deceased woman as the aunt of the sad young lady in my cruiser.
While they had utilized the driver’s license photos to aid them in identification, the crash tossed the ladies’ purses around the car’s interior making it difficult to connect the right handbag with the correct owner. The women were—essentially—twins.
I had told the lady in my car that her aunt was dead and her mom was alive, and it sounds so blunt when written like that, but death is harsh no matter how you say it. Accident scenes are sad, frantic, horrible, and harsh. It was now up to me to soften the edges and deliver much sadder news to a partially relieved woman who would soon have been victimized three times. The first time, at notification about the crash, once again— by me— regarding the news that her aunt was dead, and now, by me again, in backtracking and informing her that her mother would not return. I felt numb, stupid, and useless. But I knew that I needed to make it right, for that is also part of this job. The job I always wanted, not knowing that it came with more bad days than good.
If someone ever tells you that they believed they were standing outside their own body and looking down on a scene, trust me, it’s a real phenomenon. I felt like I was watching a poorly directed movie, but I also knew I needed to correct my mistake in the soon-to-be-there presence of her husband. I sat silently and considered how young Patrolman Cotton would make this better.
And the radio continued to squawk as we waited together; she crying, in less of a panic, and me preparing to find a place to puke that wouldn’t be so obvious to everyone on the scene.
TC
07-12-22
Join us in a week (or so) for Part Two of “Failures Not Oft Forgotten.”
From the Jagged Edge, I remain,
Tim Cotton
**Hey, thanks for reading my works on the Newslog (yes, it’s a blog) at TimCottonWrites.com. Consider supporting the blog and my meager efforts by donating through the BuyMeACoffee application. It’s found easily on the main page. Join to give regularly by becoming part of the merry band of the Royal Order of Dooryard Visitors. If you cannot give, don’t even consider it, I get it; things are tough. I’m just glad you stopped by. Please feel free to come back often and read anytime. I write for all of us, and I decided— early— to keep this blog free to read by anyone. Either way, make sure you join us by signing up for the regularly emailed tidbits. I’ll never give away or sell your email addresses. I might reach out to say hello, but that’s the extent of it. Thanks so much for reading. I hope to keep the blog a bit more updated in my newly found retirement.
Your friend,
TC
Something I Wrote in 2020
A few weeks of not writing much of anything are good for the soul. Storage of ideas and memories is fuel for a writer of simple things. I am a writer of simple things. Small details, minor incidents, mistakes, and bumps in the road are what keep the writer in me fed. Maybe you come here for that. Maybe you’re merely kind people who want to humor me.
I wrote the following piece during the toilet paper shortage of the Covid spring. I’m recycling because it’s possible that it’s something that the followers of this Newslog have not read. I had run in on my Facebook page.
I retired from police work yesterday. I’m taking a couple of days to ruminate about it. Writing something new—today—would make for a mug of very weak tea. I need to steep a bit. I know you understand. I’ve also got to do an interview with a newspaper reporter today. She’s probably the only one that I trust fully to collect my thoughts. We have talked a lot over the years. When I told her that something was off the record, it was never spoken of again. Not all journalists understand the concept. The Ah-Ha moment is all they are waiting for. Little do they know that there are many Ah-Ha moments when you are trusted, you just need to be patient and keep your word. Enough about that.
This is about a spring moment in the woods near my beloved lake. The FB post included a snippet of sound from the of phonograph player that I speak about.
Thanks for all your support, the notes about retirement, the cards and emails, and even some surprise visits from folks who wanted to meet before I left the building. What a long strange trip it’s been.
I call this one, “Something I Wrote in 2020.” Yeah, I know. I told you that I need my mug of tea to steep a bit longer.
*****
The happy gray camp on the rocky and peaceful point, just a few hundred yards down the boulder-strewn shore from my own, holds a gaggle of neighbors whose privacy I protect as if it were mine.
We all have our private spots, but we also collectively own a large woodlot that acts as a buffer to the loud and clanging world just beyond our small and intimate congregation.
We have a green-robed choir of beech and birch that stand in front of a large alto section of whispering spruce. These choral members are backed up by a rough-barked crowd of baritone hemlocks who cast damp and dark shadows well into a hot July afternoon.
It’s a peaceful place, and we all work hard to keep it that way. We are reverent in the way we speak of our little spot. We whisper, even when it’s not necessary to do so.
It’s that kind of place.
Being one who spends much of his time— alone— in this place, I sometimes wander to one of two other cottages, usually around the dinner hour. It’s a Maine thing. A dooryard visit should come around mealtime, at least, for the visitor.
It serves a man well to identify the sound of a two-stroke outboard motor coming back “down lake” sometime near dusk. For if it is August, and the white perch are schooling up on the north end of the lake, that motor sound soon sputters to silence and transitions to an odiferous announcement that the tiki torch-lit fish fry has begun. Paul and Shirley, Jeanne and Alice, and me, a world-class interloper of the first order.
Thankfully, Jeanne’s daughter, Alice, makes a large amount of pudding for dessert. She invites me to stay because she has made “two kinds!”
The perch is perfectly cooked, and I am told that Alice caught the largest one. These are not fish stories; these are conversations about potholed camp roads, mosquito bites, firewood, and fireflies. We speak of fish caught, but more about those lost at the gunnel.
It’s been some time since we could make it down the road to cottage cove. Winter made it a chore, and an early spring will make it a nightmare. The frozen road will soon turn into a horrible porridge. It becomes a cauldron of coarse gravel, water, ice, and turmoil.
Jeanne and Alice made it in today. I was stunned by her photo of the outhouse seat adorned with a pristine roll of toilet paper. Jeanne indicated that it might be the last of its kind in Downeast Maine. I am hopeful that the squirrels did not make a getaway with mine. I will check soon.
Jeanne continued her pre-spring camp mission with a short video of the family’s hand-wound 1916 Edison phonograph playing the first song of the season.
It was nice to hear and even better to hear on a day like this one. Thanks to Jeanne and Alice for letting us know that there’s gonna be weather, whether or not.
For me, it’s a pleasant note to hear as we finish out another day on the jagged edge of the continent. Take care.
Drop me a line at TimCottonWrites@gmail.com
Tim Cotton
Morning Cacophony.
Regularly scheduled morning romps recently were reorganized to include an exit out the back door, across the creaking deck that needs staining, and down the stairs to the very same backyard where we’d end up if we went out the front door.
In essence, it’s Ellie’s urinary Ushuaia. I tend to stay on the deck because the height gives me a better vantage point to ensure she doesn’t slink away after getting rear coverage from the overgrown Rhododendron. She still hasn’t figured out how I can see her so far down on the lawn, but it won’t be long until she starts to utilize under-canopy camouflage rather than the behind variety.
I only have to make the same vocalization that I always make when she is moving beyond voice-control range, “Uh, Uh, Uh, nooooo you don’t! Get back here.”
She turns, but slowly. It seems she holds out hope that I’m not talking to her. When we make eye contact, she wanders back toward the house.
Before the epiphany to switch things up, I didn’t use the pressure-treated deck for anything other than grilling from time to time and sitting in one of two 3/4-sized Adirondack chairs that my son built with my significant one’s father—years ago.
Our daughter-in-love stained them with a new coat of dark green three or four summers back. Sometimes, in the winter, I will grab my Solo fireplace, prop it up on some brick pavers, and hold court with no one in particular while watching the flames dance as I wonder about things.
This morning I just sipped my coffee while I looked directly across the divide to the woodline and watched— and listened to— a couple of crows planning their day. The agenda of a crow interests me, and while I don’t speak their language, I’d bet that they were considering where to go for breakfast. I just sipped and avoided butting in.
The cackling drew Ellie’s attention, so it slowed the process of peeing as she became the K9 equivalent of Bewitched’s Mrs. Kravitz on our little patch of a poorly-manicured green oasis. She stood still and looked skyward toward the crow’s lair.
I made some other noise to distract her from the birds, and she finally finished what she had started. She thundered back up the steps in what became a paw-produced drum roll introducing the main attraction. Breakfast!
You see, I pour her mug full of kibble into the light green partitioned bowl before we go outside. I have no method of testing my theory, but she seems more inclined to hustle when she knows breakfast is on the table.
The thunderous upward-moving dog grabbed the attention of the crows long enough to quiet them down, but they stayed put. It was probably still too dark to scan for roadside early bird specials without putting their lives in danger.
Ellie danced a bit on the way to her table. Twice a day, she is overwhelmed with happiness. Twice a day, there is a bowl involved.
I sipped the coffee while considering a future schedule for staining the deck. The crows started back up, becoming louder as the light outside increased.
There is nothing exceptional about rising and trying to shine. Still, there seems to be a consensus among the local population that loud and open communication will make it more palatable for everyone involved.
Be well.
TC
&
Ellie
The Sun Is Rising, And It’s Going To Be A Good Day
I don’t know when I started using the rise and shine greeting. I emit the slogan more for myself than the dog. The part she likes is the ear rub and the head scratch that accompanies my close talking and, possibly, a kiss on the deep crevasse that runs down the center of her boxer-like skull.
Ellie’s initial beckoning wake-up moans and groans only occur after she enters the bedroom around three o’clock in the morning. I’m usually in a semi-dream state, but I sense her staring at me. I don’t even need to open my eyes before saying, “Lie down; it’s not time to get up.”
I rise with the sun, hav
ing not used a clock in my bedroom for over fifteen years. I’m blessed with a gift that starts with a bedtime thought about what time I need to get up. And with that, I will wake up on time. I cannot explain it, but it works. I have so many things I cannot do. This one thing at which I am entirely successful makes me slightly elated.
The hour following my sermon about the fact that it’s not time to get up only includes fitful dozing. It’s not unlike a church service with a boring speaker. Some dozing is to be expected.
Ellie makes noises as she lies there, trying to remain silent. She’s no different from a criminal who recently heard their Miranda warning. They don’t want to talk, but silence is difficult for some people. And Ellie, of course.
I never get out of bed until she is completely silent for a few minutes. I don’t want her to believe that the last peep is the determining factor for my rising.
Once my feet hit the floor, and I stretch out the painful plantar fasciitis, I search for a bit of attire, don it in grand style, and then wander toward the bedroom door. The dog stands by the other side of the bed, waiting for me to pass.
I stop, bend down in the darkness until I see the faint glow of her gray chin and eyebrow hair, and I gently rub her ears and say, “The sun is rising, and it’s going to be a good day.” I mean it, but I know it’s not wholly accurate every single day. She doesn’t care. She says nothing.
It’s probably the only moment of the day when I know there will be no argument. I like that.
The sun is rising, and it’s going to be a good day.
From the jagged edge, we remain,
TC
&
Ellie
Thanks, everyone, for supporting the blog page; showing up to read my stuff makes writing worthwhile. Many have helped out with donations, but the page is here for all to read regardless. Thanks for buying the books and helping me call myself a writer. I appreciate all of you. Tim