As he stepped through the door, the little cowboy was grateful for the air conditioning in the diner.
His dusty boots were made for riding horses, not walking the streets of a small town on a hot summer’s day. His hat was practical, its wide brim providing some relief from the June sun. His short sleeved shirt, made by his mom, was soaked with sweat.
He had been positive that the Circle H ranch was open, and had convinced his dad to drop him off at the gate. However, the ranch wouldn’t open during the week until the big kids got out of school, so he walked the mile or so back to town.
He nervously jingled the change in his pocket, hoping he had enough for a cold drink. He wasn’t sure how he would call his parents and tell them he had been mistaken. Nor was he sure where he could wait for them, since the diner closed at 2 and it was already 1:30.
The diner was still full of the late lunch crowd, most of whom ignored the little cowboy. It was a simpler time, when unaccompanied seven-year-olds walking down the street weren’t unusual in a small town.
He crawled up onto a stool at the counter, trying not to be too obvious about reading the menu (he was relieved that he had enough money). He asked for a Coke, and blushed when the nice lady behind the counter teased him about his outfit.
He looked down the counter, and knew everything would be all right.
Sitting there in a billed cap, light blue shirt and dark blue pants with shiny black shoes and gun belt was a dark skinned, white haired policeman.
The little cowboy waited til the policeman finished his sandwich and lit a cigarette. Then he walked over to the policeman, who eyed him.
“Sir,” the boy stammered, “my daddy always told me if I needed help, to find a policeman. Can you help me?”
The officer asked who his daddy was; the boy told him, and gave him both the work and home numbers. It wasn’t long before a phone call was made. The policeman— his name was Purdie Byrd — waited with the boy til his daddy got there.
Eight or ten years later, the same officer helped me again. We had moved to the town, and I missed a stop sign. I was upset and angry as only a teenager can be, and not paying attention. Officer Byrd didn’t give me a ticket, but he let me vent, then calmed me down talking about cars.
We just finished Peace Officers Week, a time when we honor those who are serving, and remember those who died in the line of duty. There are not enough of the former, and far too many of the latter. I’ve known three who died on duty. I was friends with two of them.
It’s a sad time when we have celebrities and politicians screaming vitriol about law enforcement officers, calling them names and demanding they be punished if they do their jobs. True, there are some who shouldn’t be behind a badge, but those are few and far between, a tiny number of the men and women who choose a job that can get them killed, bankrupted, spat upon and cursed, so we can sleep at night.
I don’t understand the concept of arguing with law enforcement officers; regardless of what the rabble rousers say, cops aren’t the judge or jury. The arguments belong in court.
I’m proud to call several retired and active duty officers close friends. I covered crime for long enough to get an idea of the mindset, as well as some of the things they carry with them after they take off the badge. I’ve seen their eyes when they talk about fatal car crashes, dead babies, and people hurt or killed for the silliest of causes. I’ve heard their voices when they remember those who fell beside them, often for the most worthless reasons. Those officers are men and women, sons and daughters, parents, grandparents, fishermen, sports fans, dreamers — people just like everyone else. I cannot understand why we have created generations of people who tolerate songs calling for the death of those sheepdogs who stand between us and the wolves. It’s sad that a policeman who has to take a life can go to federal prison and see his family sued, but the one who kills a policeman only faces one judge on earth, and can in some cases get away with murder.
It’s fashionable for many folks to demonstrate against law enforcement, to demand answers and even suggesting executions before inventions are completed.
I suggest those of us who understand and respect those behind the badge also demonstrate, but in another way.
A dear friend of mine organizes a movement she calls Back the Blue. Sweet Miss Courtney is all about encouraging random acts of kindness, and she asks that everyone adopt an officer or department and make them feel appreciated. I know of several other den mothers who were doing this well before police became targets of domestic terrorists, racial profiteers and ambulance-chasing lawyers.
It hurts me that we have to do this in America.
Our freedoms are guaranteed in part because of the rule of law, a rule that was written to apply to everyone. Sadly, some folks see it differently, and get upset when they don’t get the special treatment they think they deserve. Too many refuse to realize that wolves prey on whomever they will, and that the badge is there to protect their families, too.
As long as there is sin, there will never be a time that we do not need law enforcement officers. The difference between when I was a little kid and now is that many sins are societally sanctioned.
Whenever we’re in trouble, we look for a policeman, but law enforcement officers need us, too.
Those behind the badge need people willing to share information. They need people who care enough about their homes and communities to vote for leaders who support law enforcement. They need people who will cover the backs of the officers who are shielding them from the evil that surrounds us.
We need to teach their kids that if they need help, they don’t need to turn to a gang or a social worker of a drug or the internet.
If they need help, kids need to know to find a policeman.
