There are always jokes about police officers and donuts. Here is one of mine.
In the early '70's, the city had just hired a large number of black officers to come up to 'standards' with the racial balance in the community. The concept was good, except with all government programs, they went with quantity and not quality. I suppose Copeland would have been just as bad an officer if he had been white. I think that he thought he had an advantage, he certainly had a chip on his shoulder. Either way, he was placed on our crew.
A sweet lady by the name of Mrs. Bray owned the Newnan Bakery just off court square. Her baker, JW, came in about 2:30 am in the morning to start the donuts and other such things. As a reward for seeing that JW safely got into the shop(and giving him a ride on rainy mornings), the 3rd shift crew got to eat as many fresh donuts and coffee as they wanted--in the store--not 1 was to be taken out the door. That rule was to prevent some lowlife from feeding his whole family.
The Square Officer would usually be around the area when it was time for JW to arrive at the Bakery, give him about 30 minutes to get the donuts in the hot grease and the coffee on and then drop in for a few. If you were smart, when you pecked on the window and got the thumbs up from JW signaling that the first batch was ready, you would radio the Lt. and say, "JW wants to see you." There was a pecking order; Lt., Sargent, Square man, then the others. We were allowed(except for Lt. Smith, who could take all the time he wanted) a 15 minute break at the Donut Shop. This system worked fine until it came to Copeland. He would go in when JW got there and stay and stay. This did not set well with Lt. Smith for several reasons, 1. Officers were to do their jobs, 2. this was unfair to the other officers, 3. the Lt. did not like being last.
The one thing that Copeland did know is that if the Lt. called your location and called you again 10 minutes later and you were still in the same place, you would have some explaining to do to the Chief. This is where the side door that opens into the alley comes in. If you got the second call, you could be out the door, down the alley and a block away from the Bakery in about 20 seconds. That would be enough time for the Lt. to come by and see that you were on the job.
The mass hiring of all the black officers was a hot button issue. No one in charge wanted to call out a single black officer for fear of repercussions of the NAACP and other black organizations. The Lt., tiring of Copeland and his antics, called the officers together and announced that if "we" did not stop spending so much time in the donut shop, he was going to place it off limits to the entire crew. I took this as a personal challenge to handle the situation. Maybe I misunderstood.
ENOUGH WAS ENOUGH!
I was not going to be denied some of the best, freshest, donuts anywhere just because of some selfish jerk. I had been rolling this plan around in my head for a long time, just sort of a fantasy in the beginning, now it was time to put it in action. I had everything I needed in my locker; a .22 caliber revolver, .22 caliber nail driving blanks, fishing cord, and the will to get even.
The next time it was Copeland's turn on Square Detail, he did what he always did, went in and stayed until the Lt.'s second call. As soon as he went in, I found an iron vent grate halfway down the alley. I duct taped the pistol, loaded with the blanks and cocked, to the grate. I ran the fishing line from the trigger, back through the grate and across the alley to another grate at mid-calf high. I then parked my patrol car where I could see when he ran out the door, down the alley, tripped the trigger, and watch him pee his pants. I got much more than I was expecting!
Sure enough, like the predictable script of a cheap play, the Lt. called and then 10 or so minutes later, he called again. As soon as the Lt. started talking the second time, the side door flew open and Copeland hit the ground running, kicking up gravel as he went. I thought he was running fast, but when he tripped the wire, that .22 sounded like a cannon in that alley. I believe his shoes would have "smoked and burned rubber" had he been on asphalt as his speed doubled. I swear it looked like he was at a 45 degree angle as he turned the corner of the alley into the street. I was already laughing uncontrollably from the time he cleared the side door, but when he suddenly stopped, flattened himself again the side of the building and drew his weapon, I almost choked. Then, like something out of a movie, he stuck the gun down the alley and fired all 6 shots in rapid order. He then ran to Jackson St., turned the corner and ran towards the Courthouse, where he told the Lt. he was. As he ran, he tried to tell the Lt. and everyone else on the radio that, "Some mother****** just shot at him and tried to kill him and he shot back."
As soon as Copeland turned the corner on Jackson St., I ran into the alley, cut the taped gun and line, put them in my pocket, drew my weapon, and advised the Lt. that I was securing the Morgan Street end of the alley, the end Copeland ran out. The Lt. and another officer secured the other end of the alley, while the Sargent came to my back up. After several long minutes of looking, we determined that no one had been in the alley. Copeland tried as best he could to explain that there had to be someone in the alley with him, but no one would believe him. He sort of had suspicions that we, or someone, wanted him dead, which we didn't. We just wanted him out of the donut shop. Either way, all worked out as he never went into the donut shop again.
Not very long after that he was fired. Good riddance.
Sunday, December 1, 2013
Wednesday, November 27, 2013
WHO PUT THAT DAMNED POSSUM IN MY OFFICE?
Sheriff Aaron Massey was a kindly man, as my Mother used to say. Portly, religious, soft-spoken, and honest, all can be used to describe this man. That is until you pushed the wrong button.
THE WRONG BUTTON!
In the mid-70's, in Newnan, Georgia, life was quite. A small, typical Southern town, where they "rolled up the sidewalks" at sundown. In fact, when the largest industry in Newnan, an aluminum plant, changed shifts at 11pm, any business that had been opened closed for the night. This would have been a couple of gas stations and a late night diner. From 11:01pm until 5:00am, nothing legal went on in the City of Newnan, Georgia. With no attractions, this small town was quite, very quite.
As a City of Newnan Police Officer, after making a few rounds to make sure all the business doors had been locked and all the car lots still had their inventory, there was less than nothing to do. boredom sets in quickly. Usually, some of the guys would pull their patrol cars to hidden spot so that the Chief, Lt., or any passing motorist would not see you, and shoot the breeze, play a few hands of cards, toss pennies at the line, or anything to keep you awake and sane.
As a City of Newnan Police Officer, after making a few rounds to make sure all the business doors had been locked and all the car lots still had their inventory, there was less than nothing to do. boredom sets in quickly. Usually, some of the guys would pull their patrol cars to hidden spot so that the Chief, Lt., or any passing motorist would not see you, and shoot the breeze, play a few hands of cards, toss pennies at the line, or anything to keep you awake and sane.
THE POSSUM FACTOR!
If you live in Georgia, you are going to see possums run across the road, at least try to run across the road. Most don't make it. There is a whole story behind that theory. From the most remote crossroads to Downtown Atlanta, you are going to see possums in the street. So when I say it was common to run up on a possum almost anytime you were patrolling at night, well, it's like saying the sun will rise in the morning. NO big deal! Unless of course, you know how to have some fun with a possum!
For those of you reading this that have limited knowledge of the way possums react to humans(and just about any other creature larger than them), here are some basics.
1. Possums are nocturnal, so much so, that if you see one in the daylight, you begin to think it may be rabid.
2. They will run from almost anything.
3. If a possum can not out-run its pursuer, it will "play dead", hence the term, playing possum.
4. If you tap it lightly with a stick when it is attempting to play dead, it will stun the possum and give you more time with the possum. That is to say, put said animal in a sack, box, or trunk of your car.
5. How long each possum "plays possum" is strictly dependent on that possum, so one must act quickly if the animal is to be moved, because this little critters have razor sharp teeth and will use them.
Well alrighty then, now that you have your Possum Primer under your belt, lets get to the heart of this story: A POSSUM IN THE SHERIFF'S OFFICE AT 3AM!
When I was at Newnan PD, during the '70's, the Sheriff's Office was in a long brick building on the corner of Perry St. and East Broad St. The small county jail was a building next to it. The county building closed for business at 5pm every day and everybody including the Sheriff went home. The only one left in the building was the dispatcher for the deputies. The door on East Broad St. would be locked, leaving the only access to the dispatcher thru the Perry St. entrance. The reasoning was several fold. 1. There was rarely a reason to speak to the dispatcher face-to-face, 2. If anyone did enter, they could be heard walking down the tile floor, the distance seemed at least 100 yards. This would give the dispatcher time enough to get up and lock the door, if needed, and call a city officer if assistance was needed. The dispatcher was to lock the door because the Sheriff DID NOT ALLOW DISPATCHERS TO CARRY WEAPONS!
We all knew this rule, which made the Possum Run such a fun prank! Well everyone has to play by the rules for that to work. I guess I should have known better, given the dispatcher on duty that night. Over the years his name has slipped into that vast canyon of unimportant facts. I am sure that some length of time after I have published this article, at say, 3:00am, I will sit bolt upright in bed, calling his name, rank, etc., once again giving my wife the needed ammunition to have me committed. I can plainly see his face now, just not associate a name with it. Let's move on. He definitely did not play by the rules!
Well, as luck would have it, I ran up on an unlucky possum that was boxed in to an area while looking through the trash cans(the possum was looking, not me). I pulled up with my lights on bright, blinding the critter, and ran towards the possum with my riot baton in hand. That 3ft. long bone-crusher made easy work of 'stunning' the hapless possum.
As I was loading my cargo in the trunk, I looked back over my shoulder and could see the door to the County Building only a block and a half away. What luck! This was going to be a piece of cake! I quickly turned my patrol car around, gained speed, and coasted to the unlocked door. In an instant I had the trunk open, grabbing the barely awake victim by the tail, half-running the 15 feet to the door, and depositing the centerpiece of the joke on the shiny as glass tile floor.
I stood outside the door watching the possum regain whatever mental abilities it had before being dealt a near death blow from an instrument designed to break bones and send men to hospitals if need be. I saw the door to the dispatch office open at the end of the long hall, emitting the only light available, acting as a beacon for the unknowing little marsupial as it took its last long walk in this life.
I have read most of what Edgar Allen Poe has written. I know what it is like to get caught up in the suspense, to have the hair stand up on the back of your neck, the goose bumps, letting your imagination of unknown sounds take you to that most scary place in your mind! But that was just reading, the sights and sounds were not real. I can not even begin to know what thoughts and fears ran through that dispatcher's(if not down his leg) mind as those little 'click click click' toe nails approached nearer and nearer his door. Why didn't he stand up and LOCK THAT DOOR?
Footsteps make a definite noise. You can usually tell if it is man or woman, child or adult. A limp can be discerned. The speed and determine are all told in footsteps. The 'click click click' of those damned toe nails give no information of anything natural, of anything sane, of anything not evil. What could they be? LOCK THE DOOR!
As I sat in my patrol car, lights out, outside the dispatcher office window, I was on an E.A. Poe field trip. In my mind I could see the wide-eyed fear on his face, beads of sweat running down his face uncontrollable, his heart beating so hard his badge bounced against his chest. Every nerve of his being trembling! WHY DIDN'T HE LOCK THAT DAMNED DOOR?
It was a combination of things; the night was dead quiet, being summer time the dispatch window was partially open, and the fact that I was not expecting the explosion of that .45 caliber handgun. The second shot was just as loud! All he had to do is scream like a little girl from the surprise of seeing that big ole possum within 3 feet of him, not reenact the Shoot Out at The OK Corral. That guy was so scared by the time the possum came through the door that he clipped off 2 rounds without even looking. HE SHOULD HAVE LOCKED THE DOOR!
Gravity apparently was the only thing on my side that night. Being as I was on a hill, I dropped the gear shift into neutral and silently let my car roll out of the area. I made my way to the opposite side of town and started calling in tag numbers of suspicious parked cars, praying that I had just awoken from a bad dream. Yeah, I wished upon that star until about 7:00 am that morning.
That kindly, soft-spoken, gentle man know as Sheriff Aaron Massey had come to work, found out what happened, and as every officer on both the city and county stood before him, The Sheriff was none of those afore mentioned qualities. I did not know that tomatoes could turn that red much less a man's face. If ever a man wanted to cuss but held it back, it was Aaron Massey.
I did not hear most of what the sheriff said, as I was thinking of places that I could put in applications for work. The summary was that if he ever, ever found out who did this, well, life as they knew it would not be worth living. I can not recall any punishment being given to that gun-slinger dispatcher, but then again, seems like it was a nephew or something like that.
One of the few times in my life that I listened that that small inner voice and kept my mouth shut, and kept my job. HE SHOULD HAVE JUST LOCKED THAT DAMNED DOOR!
When I was at Newnan PD, during the '70's, the Sheriff's Office was in a long brick building on the corner of Perry St. and East Broad St. The small county jail was a building next to it. The county building closed for business at 5pm every day and everybody including the Sheriff went home. The only one left in the building was the dispatcher for the deputies. The door on East Broad St. would be locked, leaving the only access to the dispatcher thru the Perry St. entrance. The reasoning was several fold. 1. There was rarely a reason to speak to the dispatcher face-to-face, 2. If anyone did enter, they could be heard walking down the tile floor, the distance seemed at least 100 yards. This would give the dispatcher time enough to get up and lock the door, if needed, and call a city officer if assistance was needed. The dispatcher was to lock the door because the Sheriff DID NOT ALLOW DISPATCHERS TO CARRY WEAPONS!
We all knew this rule, which made the Possum Run such a fun prank! Well everyone has to play by the rules for that to work. I guess I should have known better, given the dispatcher on duty that night. Over the years his name has slipped into that vast canyon of unimportant facts. I am sure that some length of time after I have published this article, at say, 3:00am, I will sit bolt upright in bed, calling his name, rank, etc., once again giving my wife the needed ammunition to have me committed. I can plainly see his face now, just not associate a name with it. Let's move on. He definitely did not play by the rules!
Well, as luck would have it, I ran up on an unlucky possum that was boxed in to an area while looking through the trash cans(the possum was looking, not me). I pulled up with my lights on bright, blinding the critter, and ran towards the possum with my riot baton in hand. That 3ft. long bone-crusher made easy work of 'stunning' the hapless possum.
As I was loading my cargo in the trunk, I looked back over my shoulder and could see the door to the County Building only a block and a half away. What luck! This was going to be a piece of cake! I quickly turned my patrol car around, gained speed, and coasted to the unlocked door. In an instant I had the trunk open, grabbing the barely awake victim by the tail, half-running the 15 feet to the door, and depositing the centerpiece of the joke on the shiny as glass tile floor.
I stood outside the door watching the possum regain whatever mental abilities it had before being dealt a near death blow from an instrument designed to break bones and send men to hospitals if need be. I saw the door to the dispatch office open at the end of the long hall, emitting the only light available, acting as a beacon for the unknowing little marsupial as it took its last long walk in this life.
I have read most of what Edgar Allen Poe has written. I know what it is like to get caught up in the suspense, to have the hair stand up on the back of your neck, the goose bumps, letting your imagination of unknown sounds take you to that most scary place in your mind! But that was just reading, the sights and sounds were not real. I can not even begin to know what thoughts and fears ran through that dispatcher's(if not down his leg) mind as those little 'click click click' toe nails approached nearer and nearer his door. Why didn't he stand up and LOCK THAT DOOR?
Footsteps make a definite noise. You can usually tell if it is man or woman, child or adult. A limp can be discerned. The speed and determine are all told in footsteps. The 'click click click' of those damned toe nails give no information of anything natural, of anything sane, of anything not evil. What could they be? LOCK THE DOOR!
As I sat in my patrol car, lights out, outside the dispatcher office window, I was on an E.A. Poe field trip. In my mind I could see the wide-eyed fear on his face, beads of sweat running down his face uncontrollable, his heart beating so hard his badge bounced against his chest. Every nerve of his being trembling! WHY DIDN'T HE LOCK THAT DAMNED DOOR?
It was a combination of things; the night was dead quiet, being summer time the dispatch window was partially open, and the fact that I was not expecting the explosion of that .45 caliber handgun. The second shot was just as loud! All he had to do is scream like a little girl from the surprise of seeing that big ole possum within 3 feet of him, not reenact the Shoot Out at The OK Corral. That guy was so scared by the time the possum came through the door that he clipped off 2 rounds without even looking. HE SHOULD HAVE LOCKED THE DOOR!
Gravity apparently was the only thing on my side that night. Being as I was on a hill, I dropped the gear shift into neutral and silently let my car roll out of the area. I made my way to the opposite side of town and started calling in tag numbers of suspicious parked cars, praying that I had just awoken from a bad dream. Yeah, I wished upon that star until about 7:00 am that morning.
That kindly, soft-spoken, gentle man know as Sheriff Aaron Massey had come to work, found out what happened, and as every officer on both the city and county stood before him, The Sheriff was none of those afore mentioned qualities. I did not know that tomatoes could turn that red much less a man's face. If ever a man wanted to cuss but held it back, it was Aaron Massey.
I did not hear most of what the sheriff said, as I was thinking of places that I could put in applications for work. The summary was that if he ever, ever found out who did this, well, life as they knew it would not be worth living. I can not recall any punishment being given to that gun-slinger dispatcher, but then again, seems like it was a nephew or something like that.
One of the few times in my life that I listened that that small inner voice and kept my mouth shut, and kept my job. HE SHOULD HAVE JUST LOCKED THAT DAMNED DOOR!
THIS HURTS ME MORE THAN IT DOES YOU, SERIOUSLY?!
THIS HURTS ME MORE THAN IT DOES YOU. SERIOUSLY!?!
In my youth, my Daddy would administer the punishment and retribution for the most part. My Mother used his iron fist(actually is was a belt, and a damn fine one at that) much like an old cowboy would use his sidearm. If(I mean 'when') we would do something wrong, she would quick draw the statement, "If you don't behave, I will tell you Daddy when he gets home."
She had just fired a verbal warning shot so close to the seat of our pants that we almost always amended our wicked ways. Well, my brothers and sisters did anyway.
Most people find this hard to believe, but I am what the psychologists call "dumb ass". Apparently the symptoms are not knowing when to leave well enough alone. That and I inherited the "smart ass gene" from my Father, well, as Obama would say, "It's not my fault."
When you mix to two medical conditions together you get a childhood of eating of the mantle, if you know what I mean?
Until I became a responsible adult(I use that term with abandon), I never realized the weight of the world that my Father, as well, as most other husbands, carried on their shoulders daily. I suppose if I had known all of that I would have acted better, naaaa, "dumb-assness" in an incurable malady, doomed to follow the sufferer all of his life.
Because my Daddy took life so seriously, it never occurred to me to joke with him. I loved him, but I also feared him and never wanted to get on his bad side, which coincidentally turned out to be my back side!
My Mother, on the other hand, had a gentler side, more approachable, as Mothers are supposed to be. I could joke with her, to a point. On a few occasions over my childhood, my Mother would administer the punishment. On most occasions she would say those familiar words that most Mothers have uttered, "This is going to hurt me more than it does you." Huh? I was not a rock scientist then, but I knew that was a bunch of crap. I had whipped a few kids at school and it didn't hurt a bit, well, a little, if they landed a punch.
On one particular occasion(there were so many, who can count), when my Mother made that statement, while holding my left arm, with a clear shot at my derriere, I stood upright as tall as I could, clearly several inches towering over her, and exclaimed loudly, "Let me get a switch and whip you first, then we will compare notes and see who hurts who the most!" All the time I maintained eye contact and a serious face(had to my tender ass was on the line). She stood there, frozen in mid-swing. Then ever so slightly, a smile began to creep across her face. Just before she was about to burst into laughter, she released her grip and gave a gentle shove at the same time, saying, "Go out side and behave, or I WILL tell your Daddy."
Saved my young ass by being a smart ass!
In my youth, my Daddy would administer the punishment and retribution for the most part. My Mother used his iron fist(actually is was a belt, and a damn fine one at that) much like an old cowboy would use his sidearm. If(I mean 'when') we would do something wrong, she would quick draw the statement, "If you don't behave, I will tell you Daddy when he gets home."
She had just fired a verbal warning shot so close to the seat of our pants that we almost always amended our wicked ways. Well, my brothers and sisters did anyway.
Most people find this hard to believe, but I am what the psychologists call "dumb ass". Apparently the symptoms are not knowing when to leave well enough alone. That and I inherited the "smart ass gene" from my Father, well, as Obama would say, "It's not my fault."
When you mix to two medical conditions together you get a childhood of eating of the mantle, if you know what I mean?
Until I became a responsible adult(I use that term with abandon), I never realized the weight of the world that my Father, as well, as most other husbands, carried on their shoulders daily. I suppose if I had known all of that I would have acted better, naaaa, "dumb-assness" in an incurable malady, doomed to follow the sufferer all of his life.
Because my Daddy took life so seriously, it never occurred to me to joke with him. I loved him, but I also feared him and never wanted to get on his bad side, which coincidentally turned out to be my back side!
My Mother, on the other hand, had a gentler side, more approachable, as Mothers are supposed to be. I could joke with her, to a point. On a few occasions over my childhood, my Mother would administer the punishment. On most occasions she would say those familiar words that most Mothers have uttered, "This is going to hurt me more than it does you." Huh? I was not a rock scientist then, but I knew that was a bunch of crap. I had whipped a few kids at school and it didn't hurt a bit, well, a little, if they landed a punch.
On one particular occasion(there were so many, who can count), when my Mother made that statement, while holding my left arm, with a clear shot at my derriere, I stood upright as tall as I could, clearly several inches towering over her, and exclaimed loudly, "Let me get a switch and whip you first, then we will compare notes and see who hurts who the most!" All the time I maintained eye contact and a serious face(had to my tender ass was on the line). She stood there, frozen in mid-swing. Then ever so slightly, a smile began to creep across her face. Just before she was about to burst into laughter, she released her grip and gave a gentle shove at the same time, saying, "Go out side and behave, or I WILL tell your Daddy."
Saved my young ass by being a smart ass!
GETTING A WHOOPIN'!
I posted earlier about the validity of a Mother's statement, "This is going to hurt me more that it is you." I think we can all say it is a matter of perspective and which end of the switch that you are on.
People often daydream and ponder what they would do if they could live their lives over again. Become a famous doctor or lawyer or some other 'high' title. Write a best selling novel, invent the ____________ and become rich beyond dreams. Travel to far away places. Gold, sliver, adventure, love, all dreams, just dreams.
Me, naaa, none of that crap. My dream would be to have seized just one of those many moments when we all(and I mean all) traveled to where ever in that 1952 Chevy. Mother, Daddy, two bothers, two sister, and at the time, my skinny ass little self.
I have no doubt that Mr. John Hines of Hines Motor Co./Citizens Bank fame, or Mr. Ralls of Ralls Ford Dealership, both drove air conditioned cars back in those days. The families of most cotton mill hands did not.
So we would be off on a trip some where. I am sure that we traveled in winter as well as summer, but some how only those hot, sticky, Death Valley days of summer stick in my memory. Three in the front, Daddy driving, Mother by the passenger door, and usually more times than not, PRINCESS, in the middle. This left my two brothers, older sister, and myself to eek out our territory a back seat that would barely seat three comfortably. There was lots of squirming, "he/she keeps touching me"(how could you keep from it), and many other things that Daddy found annoying.
Usually after less than 10 minutes on the road he would cantilever his right arm over the front seat and snap his fingers. It always had the chilling effect and volume of a .22 pistol being fired in the car. I always flinched at the report. No words, just one loud SNAP! To this day I can not snap my fingers that loud. I used to think that it was something the men learned in the cotton mill as a way to get someone's attention due to the loud noise those machines made, so loud you had to 'talk over them' even outside the mill.
The tingle from that warning shot would last about 10 minutes, then it was back to business as usual, complaining that if you were not by the window you could not breath, even though all 4 windows were down all the way and all the air scientifically possible was rushing in. Of course it kept escalating and Daddy kept boiling.
The next thing you know, he would look in the rear view mirror and you would swear that you were the only one he had eye contact with. He would then utter those words that every Father that is not a candy-ass liberal would say, "Do you want me to pull this car over and whoop your ass?"
THAT! THERE! THE MOMENT! The moment I wish I could relive! No, not because I actually wanted passing strangers to see me getting my 'butt torn out of the frame' by the side of the road, but I have always want to answer my Daddy something other than a squeaky little, "no, sir."
I have long wished that I had the courage(or maybe insanity) to give another answer. One like: "Why yes, Daddy, I think I would! Could you possibly find a good stopping place under one of those shade trees so as Mother and the rest can stay cool. And could you spare a few whacks to my lower lumbar region, I have a nagging backache and that might just do the trick."
All the jaws of my siblings in the back seat would have sprung open as if jet propelled, all the while recoiling from my vicinity so as not to catch a missed blow sure to come. All the while envying my bravery and simultaneously pitying my stupidity. In a single, ballerina-like movement, the Princess would spin completely around, landing on her knees, clutching the seat back with both hands, grinning like the Cheshire Cat at my oncoming demise. My Mother thinking the Communist might as well invade the U.S., as her world just went to hell. My Daddy, both beaming with pride at his baby boy's lack of fear of death, while glowing white hot with anger that I would challenge him.
Yeah, it's fun to relive your life with different scenarios. But the truth is if I HAD that amount of courage/stupidity the reality is that Daddy would 'seized up', white knuckling the steering wheels, and involuntarily pressing the gas pedal, causing us to run of the road at high speed, killing us all, resulting in me not being here to relate this fairy tale.
Sometimes it best to just keep your mouth shut! Strange though, it never occurred to me to make that statement to him when we were not in the car. Hmmmm, could it be that CARS make you stupid?
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
WELL HELL, IDENTITY THEFT AIN'T NOTHING NEW AT OUR HOUSE!
We had a RURAL ROUTE 5 mailing address, since there was no such thing as house numbering, GPS, or the like. Remember the RR5, we'll get back to it.
Well 9 months after the wedding bells sounded, our first child was on the way. Nothing out of the ordinary, a healthy baby boy, Joseph Allen was born. Not being the savvy business man that I am today, I did not have insurance to cover the expenses and had to work two jobs to pay off that child. Still, no problem, it's just what you do. This was October 28, 1975, also remember this date.
Almost two years later, October 12, 1977, to be exact, Janice was again at Newnan Hospital to deliver our next child. As I was waiting to welcome Clayton Daniel into the world, a nurse asked me to go down to the accounting office to see the manager.
When I was seated he informed me that they (the hospital) could not deliver my child. I told that pencil-pusher unless he knew how to stop Janice's contractions, plus had nerve enough to tell her she couldn't have the baby there, he needed to step aside and let nature take its course.
He informed me that the reason was that I had an unpaid balance on the previous child (born 10/28/75) and they had a policy of not giving further service to people with outstanding balances.
I informed him that he was full of s---, and that I had all the receipts at home, with a "paid in full" receipt locked safely away in a lock box for just such an occasion. Flustered, he began to scramble through his paperwork (this was pre-computer printouts) to prove that I was indeed the shiftless deadbeat that he thought I was.
Here comes the identity theft (of sorts) part of the story:
He said, "Aren't you Larry T. Cook?"
Me, "It's actually "G", but close enough.
He, "An your wife is Jan M. Cook?"
Me, "She prefers "Janice".
He, "You live on RR5, Newnan, Ga.?"
Me, "For the last 2 years."
He, "Your wife gave birth here on Oct. 28, 1975?"
Me, "Correct."
He, "And your daughter's name is........?"
Me (as I interrupted), "Only girl in my house is upstairs giving birth!"
Here are the stats:
On the other end of RR5 in Newnan, Ga., lived a guy by the name of Larry T. Cook. His wife was Jan Michelle Cook, while my wife is Janice Marie. They had a healthy baby girl the same day that our son was born. Well that might be the end of the story except------
I started getting calls from local companies such as furniture stores, department stores, and the like, saying that I was behind on my payments. When I tried to tell them it was mistaken identity, it comes to light that the sorry s.o.b. was giving Janice and my work places as references for credit. Back in those days the local stores would just call and ask if you worked at a certain place and the credit clerk would get all the information she needed. This obviously was before all the privacy policies of today.
Well, after some doing, we finally got all that straightened out. Shortly after that we moved and I took a job with another police department in the small town of Franklin, Ga.
During the summer the main event for this sleepy little town was the FRANKLIN MUSIC PARK. Owned and operated by the honorable Mr. Hugh Goodson, the Who's Who in country music would perform there in the course of the summer. Of course my job was to work every Friday and Saturday night, helping direct traffic, as this place drew huge crowds. Because I always worked the nights of the shows, I never got to attend any of the shows.
So you can imagine my surprise when I received a call to report to the magistrate court one afternoon, while I was in uniform and on duty. The judge called me aside and said, "Larry, I'm sorry but I have a bad check warrant for your arrest. I want to see if we can fix this before it goes to court."
"Mrs. Alexander, I don't know how you could have a warrant for me; I don't write the checks at my house, Janice does. Who says that we gave them a bad check?"
"Well the affidavit says that you bought 4 of the best seats in the house at the Charlie Daniels Show at the Music Park and the check is no good."
"First of all Clarise(Mrs. Alexander), you know that I am directing traffic to all the shows, along with everybody else at the Police Dept. and the Sheriff's Dept. The chief and the sheriff are the only two that get to see the concerts. Please let me see the check."
That son-of-a-bitch had come to Franklin, wrote a bad check, and now I was having to again straighten out his mess. I called my former chief in Newnan, and giving him the story, he sent 2 detectives to find this joker and show him the error of his ways. After a few days in a country jail, the message seemed to sink in and I never had my identity stolen or confused again.
p.s. I forget to mention that while we still lived in Newnan, Janice went to a local fast food restaurant known as the WISHBONE (best damn fried shrimp anywhere) and when her order came, she wrote the girl a check which was commonplace back in those days.
The clerk looked at the check, looked at Janice, and then back at the check. With a room full of lunch-time customers, the clerk looked Janice dead in the eyes and announced in a loud voice, "This check ain't no good, the Cooks ain't never wrote a good check here."
Just as Janice was crouching into ninja attack mode, the fry-cook came out to look and just happened to be on the same softball team as Janice. Seeing that death was about to be visited upon the clerk, the lady from the back rushed forward and shouted, "NO! NO! This is a different set of Cooks!"
All of Janice's life, she had been a forgiving person. But until the day she passed away, she still did not see the humor of that day. She was a good Christian woman, but she did have her pride!
larrycook351@yahoo.com
706-302-8902
WE ALL LIVE IN A YELLOW SUBMARINE....
Daryl and Brenda were sweethearts, in a redneck, trailer park sort
of way. But man did they love each other! That is for about 10 minutes a
day. The other 23 hours and 50 minutes they were cussin' and fussin'
and fighting like cats and dogs (sorry cats and dogs for lowering your
standards in the world, it just seemed to fit).
For those ever so brief moments, you would have thought
the two of them had just wed on "FANTASY ISLAND", with Mr. Roarke as the
preacher and Tattoo as the best man. But something in their genetic
makeup just would not let that couple go a day without an argument of
some kind where one or the other, and sometimes both, would storm off to
their respective parents to sulk for a time. And just as soon as they
separated, the began to miss each other.
This went on for several years while I was a police
officer in the small town of FRANKLIN, GEORGIA. Now when I say small,
this could have been the twin of MAYBERRY. FRANKLIN was the only real
city in the whole county and had the distinction of having the only
traffic light in the entire county. On a clear night, you could hear
banjo music.
Back in those days we (the police) were not encumbered
by such finite laws, rules, and regulations. If something was wrong, we
fixed it. Writing mounds of paperwork, getting permits and permission
were unheard of. Point in case, if a woman said that the low-down
bastard that she had been living in sin with had hit her, we went and
locked said bastard up--problem solved. Then after a day or two, or at
least until he sobered up and she calmed down, he was released with an
indefinite court date. Meaning--go home and behave.
Now this worked 99% of the time, but here we go back to
Daryl and Brenda. That woman used that privilege (of having drunk
husband/boyfriend locked up) more than poor folks play the Lottery.
Those two would be rolling along, as happy as could be. Daryl would have
one to many (a practice I thought made sense, knowing Brenda), Brenda
would say/do something to piss Daryl off. He would say/do something to
make Brenda mad, then the fireworks started!
Daryl owned a beautifully restored, Canary Yellow, 1968 Chevy Nova. To give this country boy his due, he had done a first class job on the restoration. I also give him credit for the fact that he had sense enough to never drive that car when he had been drinking, which meant that he seldom got to drive it.
Daryl owned a beautifully restored, Canary Yellow, 1968 Chevy Nova. To give this country boy his due, he had done a first class job on the restoration. I also give him credit for the fact that he had sense enough to never drive that car when he had been drinking, which meant that he seldom got to drive it.
THE PERFECT STORM!
I borrowed that film title because
everything came together on that hot summer night back in the mid-1980's
to make this tale fun to remember and share!
Unlike usual, in that Brenda usually called us during the
day, she came bursting into the Sheriff's Office about midnight on this
particular Wednesday night. She was upset and babbling incoherently
about Daryl and she had gotten into a fight(news flash!) and that he was
drunk (stop the presses!) and that he had driven off in the NOVA! Whoa
Nellie! Now that got my attention as that boy could not walk when
drinking, much less drive an automobile.
The deputy and I calmed Brenda down as much as possible to
try and make sense out of this mess. Unlike the usual scenario of Brenda
just picking up the phone and calling when the fight started, she said
she was leaving him and ran out the door. Although she just ran around
to the back of their apartment, Daryl, in his drunken state, panicked
and who knows what went through his mind, other than he had to get his
woman back.
Now Brenda's parents lived south of Franklin, while Daryl's
parents live north of town. It was decided that the deputy would go to
Daryl's parents as he was, I think, some kin to them and had a better
relationship with them than I. My job was to drive south and try to
locate this guy before he hurt himself, or God forbid, an innocent
person.
Off we both went. I was just over a mile south of town when
my headlights pick up the sight of a man running towards me in the
center of the road. I say running, but that is the nearest word to
describe a man, drunk as the proverbial bicycle, sopping-soaking wet
(we'll get to that in a minute), running up an incline.
Well yes, it was Daryl! I had stopped far enough back so that
he could get plenty of exercise out of his run(so shoot me, I'm a
little devil). He stuck his drunk, dripping, head in my window,
blubbering, burbing, and baptizing me with filthy, sinking pond
water(?).
"Brenda's dead! I killed her! Oh GOD! Oh GOD!" He repeated
this over and over. I would have been duly concerned had I not just
spoken and seen Brenda less than 10 minutes earlier and the fact that I
had dealt with hundreds and hundreds of drunks like this. Well, not
exactly like this, but close enough.
As Daryl was crying, confessing, and begging for forgiveness,
I called the deputy and told him my location and that I had the
suspect. The deputy was already on his way towards me, as he had checked
with Daryl's parents and knew the only other place he could be was
south of town. The deputy arrived within a few minutes and I brought him
up to speed.
Now to set the stage so that you can get the picture, if you
are not familiar with the area, here is the layout. Just around the
curve from where we found Daryl is a small, shallow lake on the left. If
you are heading north, as Daryl was, the lake will be on your right, in
a "hard" curve to the right. For some reason not known to me was a pile
of dirt that made an excellent ramp of sorts.
Well
the three of us went to the scene. walked up the "ramp" and looked into
the shallow lake. Daryl had gone into the curve much too fast, down the
embankment, up the ramp, and momentum cause the vehicle to do a 180
degree turn, belly-flopped into that lake, with the top barely two feet
under water. The headlights were still on, illuminating the fish as they
swam in front of them.
It was also a full
moon(which might explain part of this story) and it was bright enough,
along with the headlights, that you could see that beautiful, totally
ruined Nova just sitting in the water. The deputy and I both just wanted
to smack Daryl, if for nothing else, destroying such a wonderful car.
Standing
there in silence, it just came to me! Although I can not carry a tune
in a bucket, I at least know the words: "WE ALL LIVE IN A YELLOW
SUBMARINE, YELLOW SUBMARINE............"
The deputy turned and looked at me, shook his head and said, "Cook, you ain't got a lick of sense."
As I sit here, typing this story, I tend to agree with him!
Oh, after letting Daryl "stew" for a while, confess all his
sins to GOD, promise to stop drinking, etc., etc., I finally told him
that Brenda was safe at the Sheriff's Office. SEE, I can be a good guy,
sometimes.
larrycook351@yahoo.com
706-302-8902
Friday, February 17, 2012
MOVING GRAVES IN NEWNAN, GEORGIA!
Recently, in the news has been a sad story of a vehicle that lost
control on Jefferson Street and plowed into the cemetery there and
destroyed many grave makers, some because they are so old, it is
difficult to contact the descendents. This is not an article about right
or wrong, it just brought up a story about that cemetery.
Back in the beginnings of the 1970's, the City of Newnan was in the
process of making Bullsboro Drive to connect to the new I-85, which
ended at Palmetto at the time and did not resume again until the Alabama
State Line.
Part of that process was to move part of the Cemetery to be able to
widen the road in the name of progress. It happens all the time. I think if
done with respect, it a good thing.Lord knows I would not want my dead
body keeping someone from getting to Wal-Mart on time.
The part of the cemetery that was to be moved was not just ordinary citizens
who had passed. NOOOO! It was the CONFEDERATE SOLDIERS section.
Saying that in today's climate would not even raise an eyebrow. However,
this was a time when feelings for the OLD SOUTH and all things Southern
still ran deep, very deep in Newnan, Georgia.
This was a time when most, if not all, the
hands on labor was done by the black community. Back in this era, the
Blacks were very weary and respectful of the dead. Getting Black men to
exhume a grave was tenuous at best, getting them to exhume Confederate
Soldiers, I am told, had the air electric with emotions.
ENTER THOSE DAMNED POLICE!
The City of Newnan Police Dept. was there to keep things moving along,
or so it was supposed. There were the usual curiosity seekers who tend
to get in the way, concerned citizens, and others for various reasons,
all of whom slow down the work.
Having the onlookers
sufficiently out of the way, AND out of ear shot, one particular Police
Officer decided to have some fun. The men would dig down to the
appropriate depth, usually finding nothing of the casket or skeleton,
since the bodies had been buried in wooden boxes over 100 years ago. I
am told a metal detector was used to find buttons, buckles, swords,
anything metal that could be transferred to the new resting place.
As this was the last grave, the Officer on Duty could not let the opportunity to have a little fun.
Every day at noon, work would stop for an hour for everyone to rest and
have lunch. Even the onlookers would take a break. The only one left
was the Officer on Duty to guard the open grave against an accident or
theft. The Officer on Duty decided it would be fun to play a little
trick on the grave diggers, as he knew them all and everybody worked
together. He went down the ladder, put his back-up walkie-talkie in a
paper bag and lightly covered it with dirt. He then went back up the
ladder and waited. When the men came back from lunch, they assumed their
usual duties. The lead man would go down with the small metal detector
and small hand trowel to find the objects, the second man would be half
way down the ladder to take whatever was handed to him, the third man
stood at the top of the grave to receive the items, and 3 or 4 peered in
watching and waiting until it was their turn to fill in the dirt.
Just as the lead man ran the metal detector across the hidden
walkie-talkie and a loud squeal erupted, the Police Officer spoke into
his other walkie-talkie, "Get that damn contraption out of my face Boy, I
am a Confederate General!"
I don't know if it is true or not,
but it was told that the lead man in the bottom of the grave past the
man on the ladder as he was getting out of the grave and the whole gang
ran as if their lives depended on it.
In the confusion, the
Officer went down and retrieved his radio and acted as dumbfounded as
everyone else. He said that they had to hire a whole new crew to finish
the job.
The Officer that told me that story is dead now and I
would not tell anything that he could not confirm or deny on his own.
He always said it was not him, but with that tinkle in his eyes, well, I will go to
to my grave knowing that he was the rascal that he was.
control on Jefferson Street and plowed into the cemetery there and
destroyed many grave makers, some because they are so old, it is
difficult to contact the descendents. This is not an article about right
or wrong, it just brought up a story about that cemetery.
Back in the beginnings of the 1970's, the City of Newnan was in the
process of making Bullsboro Drive to connect to the new I-85, which
ended at Palmetto at the time and did not resume again until the Alabama
State Line.
Part of that process was to move part of the Cemetery to be able to
widen the road in the name of progress. It happens all the time. I think if
done with respect, it a good thing.Lord knows I would not want my dead
body keeping someone from getting to Wal-Mart on time.
The part of the cemetery that was to be moved was not just ordinary citizens
who had passed. NOOOO! It was the CONFEDERATE SOLDIERS section.
Saying that in today's climate would not even raise an eyebrow. However,
this was a time when feelings for the OLD SOUTH and all things Southern
still ran deep, very deep in Newnan, Georgia.
This was a time when most, if not all, the
hands on labor was done by the black community. Back in this era, the
Blacks were very weary and respectful of the dead. Getting Black men to
exhume a grave was tenuous at best, getting them to exhume Confederate
Soldiers, I am told, had the air electric with emotions.
ENTER THOSE DAMNED POLICE!
The City of Newnan Police Dept. was there to keep things moving along,
or so it was supposed. There were the usual curiosity seekers who tend
to get in the way, concerned citizens, and others for various reasons,
all of whom slow down the work.
Having the onlookers
sufficiently out of the way, AND out of ear shot, one particular Police
Officer decided to have some fun. The men would dig down to the
appropriate depth, usually finding nothing of the casket or skeleton,
since the bodies had been buried in wooden boxes over 100 years ago. I
am told a metal detector was used to find buttons, buckles, swords,
anything metal that could be transferred to the new resting place.
As this was the last grave, the Officer on Duty could not let the opportunity to have a little fun.
Every day at noon, work would stop for an hour for everyone to rest and
have lunch. Even the onlookers would take a break. The only one left
was the Officer on Duty to guard the open grave against an accident or
theft. The Officer on Duty decided it would be fun to play a little
trick on the grave diggers, as he knew them all and everybody worked
together. He went down the ladder, put his back-up walkie-talkie in a
paper bag and lightly covered it with dirt. He then went back up the
ladder and waited. When the men came back from lunch, they assumed their
usual duties. The lead man would go down with the small metal detector
and small hand trowel to find the objects, the second man would be half
way down the ladder to take whatever was handed to him, the third man
stood at the top of the grave to receive the items, and 3 or 4 peered in
watching and waiting until it was their turn to fill in the dirt.
Just as the lead man ran the metal detector across the hidden
walkie-talkie and a loud squeal erupted, the Police Officer spoke into
his other walkie-talkie, "Get that damn contraption out of my face Boy, I
am a Confederate General!"
I don't know if it is true or not,
but it was told that the lead man in the bottom of the grave past the
man on the ladder as he was getting out of the grave and the whole gang
ran as if their lives depended on it.
In the confusion, the
Officer went down and retrieved his radio and acted as dumbfounded as
everyone else. He said that they had to hire a whole new crew to finish
the job.
The Officer that told me that story is dead now and I
would not tell anything that he could not confirm or deny on his own.
He always said it was not him, but with that tinkle in his eyes, well, I will go to
to my grave knowing that he was the rascal that he was.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
