Guns a blazin,’ Wyatt Earp made himself known in the wild, wild, west, where the law was often what you made it at that precise moment.

Wyatt Earp ~

Wyatt Earp is best known as the fearless frontirr lawman of Wichita and Dodge City, Kansas and principal survivor of “The Gunfight at OK Corral.”

Wyatt Berry Stapp Earp was born in Monmouth, IL on March 19, 1848 and moved to Colton, CA with his parents.  In 1870, he returned east and married his first wife.  The sudden death of his new bride made him drift into Indian Territory and work as a stagecoach driver, and also hunt buffalo.

In 1875, he arrived in Wichita, KS and joined the police force.  The next year, he moved to Dodge City and became a card dealer in a famous saloon and assistant to the Marshal.  It was here, that he met and became lifelong friends with Bat Masterson and Doc Holiday, establishing his reputation as a notable lawman and gambler.

Four years later, he moved to Tombston, AZ in 1879, with his second wife, his brothers, and their wives.  Here, he acquired the gambling concession at the oriental saloon and his brother, Virgil became the town Marshal, while Morgan took a job with the police dept.  It was here that Wyatt met his third wife, Josie, who remained with him until his death. 

On Oct 26, 1881, a feud that had developed between the Earps and a gang led by Ike Clanton culminated in the most celebrated gunfight in western folklore, “The Gunfight at OK Corral.”  Three of the Clanton gang were killed while Ike and another escaped.  The Earps and Doc Holiday survived, but both Morgan and Virgil were wounded.

In March 1882, Morgan Earp was gunned down by unknown assassins.  Wyatt, his brother Warren, and some friends embarked on a vendetta which ended in the death of all four suspects.  In those wild days, justice was what you made it.  Families members of victims often took it upon themselves to go after and kill those who committed crimes against them or their friends or relatives.

After being accused of these murders, Wyatt and Josie fled to Colorad, Idaho and then finally settled down in California.  Wyatt died on Jan 13, 1929 in Los Angeles at age 80.

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Every cop hates pursuits, or not. It’s a love/hate relationship. Either way, they are a wreck waiting to happen. The risk for injury to pedestrians is huge, as is the danger of running into someone, or causing the car you’re chasing to do either.

Sometimes, cops even run into EACH OTHER. Which is exactly what happened to mine. (cop that is.) I was a young new mother, and had settled into late evenings at home alone. I had learned to enjoy the hours spent rocking my baby, planning meals, decorating the house, reading and watching movies.

I was low maintenance. Give me a book, a baby, cookies in the oven, it was so 1960. (Actually, 1977, but you get the idea.)

One night, around 2:00a.m. (why is it always 2:00a.m.? Is there something deadly about that hour in the universe?), I got the dreaded knock on the door.

It’s never good when that happens. It was a cop, and I nearly slid to the floor, thinking the worst. Immediately, I needed to throw up. Gagging, I pressed my hand to the mouth, my eyes pleading what my voice could not.

The cop’s first words were “He’s alive.” Wise man, to say that first.

I swallowed, fighting the strong urge to vomit. Adrenalin hit my stomach like a ton of bricks. I nodded, tears flowing already. I’m so strong. “Stop it!” I yelled at myself silently.

“Come with me, I’ll take you to the hospital, his car collided with a deputy’s car. He’s conscious, it looks like a head wound, not sure what else.” He was moving me around the house, letting me calm down. I grabbed some clothes and ran to the bathroom. We gathered the baby up and I said “Take me to my mother-in-laws.”

I pounded on her door, knowing she was not going to understand and would also feel like vomiting. “Lynn’s been hurt but he’s ok. I’ll call you from the hospital, I promise. Here’s the baby.”

I was back in the police car and we took off, red lights blinking into the darkness. No siren, thank God. I hate those things.

I was silent, the cop, one of Lynn’s men, was talking softly. “He was in pursuit, going North. The deputy was in pursuit of another guy, going West. The deputy did not stop at the intersection. Lynn saw it coming, you know him, he’s never speeding that fast since he’s a dad now, and so he was able to slam on the brakes. He still hit at an impact of 30 miles an hour we think, and he must’ve hung on the steering wheel with everything he’s got because it’s bent in half. It started about 8pm, this yellow GTO was buzzin’ through town running lights and floorin’ turning corners on two wheels. We’ve chased him all night. We just knew he was going to take out another car. We don’t know who he is, but we’ve seen him before. He’s good. Bad, but a good driver. Fast, daredevil, probably 17 or 18, he’s had some experience behind the wheel. Other departments in nearby counties have had trouble with him, no one can catch the guy. He’s run lots of people off the road. Lynn said none of us were to press him, just try to head him off, keep our distance, this guy would go the distance, he’s no green horn. By midnight, we were all gettin’ pissed. He had disappeared and we were drivin’ the alleys. Couldn’t find the creep. All of a sudden, he screams around the Sonic and heads north outta town, Lynn’s right behind him but slows down and drops back, hoping to decrease the guy in the GTO’s speed.

We didn’t know the deputy was anywhere around, he wasn’t on the radio. Outta nowhere, the deputy is crossing the intersection right at the fkkkiiiin highway!! If Lynn had been going full speed like he was earlier in the evening, well.. I don’t have to tell you…

When we got there, Lynn was out of the car, and fightin’ us because he didn’t know anything. He’s got a head wound. Since he was standing, we assume his legs are ok, but he collapsed to the ground so we don’t know……Marisue. Are you about to throw up? Please don’t throw up in my fkkkkin’ car….oh maannn!”

The cop knew me, and he knew I’d want the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. It was a pact we had all made. Give it to me straight.

Then help me throw up.

Miraculously, I had pity on the cop and did not throw up in his car. I waited until he opened the side car door for me and then I threw up on his shoe. Sorry. I ran into the emergency room of the small town hospital, and saw Lynn lying on the narrow hard table, with his eyes closed and blood everywhere. The doctor looked up. He was sewing Lynn’s scalp back together.

Matter of factly, the doctor began to talk “Hi Marisue, nothing like a midnight stroll to get us all going, eh? He’s going to be ok, if you don’t mind a few more lines in his face. I thought cops knew to stop at intersections. You might have an argument with the deputy who didn’t. I’m cutting his uniform off, and he’s going to xray, make sure he doesn’t have any broken bones. He’s going to have a major headache. but since he complains all the time anyway, you probably won’t notice the difference.”

I did giggle, but almost too much. Hysteria was pouring through my system, mixing with the adrenalin and coming up in my mouth. Everyone was a comedian.

Lynn, disturbed by the voices, tried to open his eyes and turn towards me. Those baby blues were gray and glassy. He did not recognize me. I looked up at the doctor, who shrugged and said “Well, for the next hour or two, you could play the other woman.” I was not amused.

The doctor cleared his throat and said “Most head wounds like this leave you foggy. He’s got a concussion. He’ll be confused for a few hours or maybe a day. ” The doctor told Lynn to be still, and he seemed to go back to sleep, as he muttered, “What happened?”

The doctor grinned and said “I wish I had a nickel for every time someone says that.”

I must have looked pale and weak, the nurse pushed me into a chair in the hall and gave me some water. My face began to feel warm again, and my stomach settled down. I jumped up, startling everyone and ran to the pay phone to call Lynn’s mother. “He’s ok, a nasty cut to the head, you wont be able to see it when his hair grows back. They don’t think anything else is broken, we’ll know soon, he was talking but he’s sleeping a little, they can’t sedate him due to the concussion…”

I stopped talking and willed myself to slow down and breathe.

His mother asked if I was sure he was ok. I said “not completely but probably.” Neither of us felt much better. It was too soon and we didn’t have enough information.

More cops arrived, checking on Lynn. I overheard pieces of their conversations. It seemed they were more angry at the hecklers that had driven by honking and being obnoxious about the two wrecked police cars, than they were at the deputy. That would come later.

One of Lynn’s childhood friends, who was also on the force, was in hot pursuit of a heckler. The friend, Jim, was in his own car, and the police were trying to find him to calm him down before the whole situation exploded. Cops do not like it when “drive by’s” heckle.

Neither do cop’s wives. Speaking of which, they began to arrive by twos - to see if I needed something. I did, company. I didn’t want to talk, I just didn’t want to be alone. In fact, tho’ I know it’s hard to believe, I had little to say. I murmured, nodded and listened, saying “huh?” to everyone who spoke to me.

I was ravenous, and couldn’t eat when food appeared. I was thirsty, and threw up the liquid. I was calm, as tears slid continually down my cheeks.

Finally, Lynn was in a room and did recognize me when I entered. He asked “Is the scar bad?” I said, “What scar?” We both laughed as I cried.

Within seconds, the room was full of cops, cop’s wives, and noise. The nurses were having none of that and rushed in to scoot us out. Lynn slept, I returned to his mother’s house and we all waited for the sun to come up.

The kid that Lynn was attempting to pull over, was later found at home, in a nearby town. As word spread that a cop had been hit, regardless of how or why, all departments were on hot alert to get the speeder, who was causing all this trouble. The 17 year old received his ticket and was no worse for the wear, nor did he express regret. Grrrr. Thankfully, Lynn had not been speeding, just following behind with his lights flashing. Lynn had a dread of causing a teen to panic and get seriously hurt, because a cop was chasing him. It was ironic, that Lynn got hurt instead.

They never found the hecklers, which was a good thing. The cops talked for years about the “dukes of hazard” colliding; it made for great exaggerated tales.

Lynn’s scar is one of distinction, but has faded with time. The deputy who ran into him was not injured and personally apologized, but was taken off duty for a period of time, just for precaution. City cops and deputy cops compete, no one knows why, but it’s tradition.

It was just an accident, and part of a cop’s life.

-I’m Marisue, telling the tales, of a cop and his wife.

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A Sky Deputy Sees A Miracle

“I didn’t see this happen, but since a cop never lies, and he swore at the telling that this was true, so help him God, I figured it must have really happened.”

Towards the end of my husband’s law enforcement career, he took a detour and became an Special Deputy for the Department of US Marshall Service, as a Federal Air Marshall. Their headquarters is based in Oklahoma City. His job was to transport and guard federal inmates and return illegal immigrants from Puerto Rico who had committed crimes, back to their homeland, courtesy of your tax dollars. In the course of one year, they would move over 100,000 inmates.

The skies were alive with criminals.

He saw things that both amused and irritated him. Men that were in the process of becoming women are not a pretty sight. To be half-way inbetween, biologically, is a curious sight. However, he did say that some men made pretty women, if you could get over the fact that they had parts of their bodies either removed, or in hiding.

But, that is not what this story is about. The men and women who are guests of the Federan Inmate System are moved from here and there (your tax dollars at work), via old clunky airplanes held together with wishes and promises, and maybe a well placed piece of chewed bubble gum.

No guns are allowed in the plane cabins, though they are carried in the cargo area. Of course, you can’t get to them while in flight, so they don’t do much good, should they be needed. The deputies relied on each other, their wit, and their alertness. If you’ve ever suffered from jet lag, you know the “alert” part is hard to come up with at 15 hours of flying and 3 days of no sleep.

The prisoners are in chains, thin clothing no matter the weather, and stockings are available to pull over their faces if the inmate decides he’d like to spit on you. Most of the time, you don’t know that’s his desire until it’s happened, but the stockings stand ready.

Lynn normally didn’t have trouble with an inmate. He was respectful to them, not chatty, did his job and moved on. He didn’t smart off or make fun of their plight. I think he coughed a couple of times when he saw the “he/she’s,” no disrespect to your tax dollars, intended. Most of the inmates thought he was a Chaplin and he let them think it, knowing full well that should they cause a problem, praying would not be his first response.

The plane on this day, was full of about 150 prisoners, from 18 - 88. The one that captured his full attention was a man of about 55 in a wheel chair. A few flights before, he’d seen him walking with no problem. He asked one of the deputies what had happened; no one knew.

Securing the wheelchair to the floor, Lynn continued down the aisle making sure they had their seat belts securly fastened and did they need peanuts, or a nice beverage. They could ask, but nothing was ever served. This was a low budget flight. Con Air in the sky.

Shortly after take off, as they climbed to 30,000 feet, Lynn got a strange feeling. The air was stiff, his ears felt plugged, sound seemed far away. He didn’t think of it as a premonition, but he knew something was different. He licked his lips, and got up to make a round.

Cops know, if they’re wise, to trust their instincts. Trouble with instinct, it’s not a clear message from the cosmos. It doesn’t come in on a ticker tape with a well laid out plan of action, re-action. You’re basically on your own, tryiing to figure out the next second before “it” happens.

He walked the aisles, checking seat belts and shackles. They all thought he was being nice, and asked for water and peanuts again. Same answer. “Sure.”

Just as Lynn sat back down and buckled in, almost as if it had waited so he’d be in that chair, the left engine blew up with a loud explosion!

Hell entered the plane with a loud welcome for all those IT was about to claim.

Everyone screamed; no one was ashamed. The plane jerked to the right and then pitched to the left, waddling in mid air, trying to find it’s center. Suddenly, it dropped. And, dropped. A prisoner across the aisle yelled at Lynn asking, “What do we do?” Lynn replied calmly, so calmly he wasn’t sure it was his own voice. “Kiss your ass goodbye.”

Cops talk like that sometimes to prisoners. The man shook his head and smiled…no further words necessary when you have dying on the mind.

Seconds took hours to pass. Lynn said he did not see his life before his eyes, he was just suddenly ravenously hungry. He wanted to eat something, anything. The only food on board was his bagged lunch, way up at the front of the plane in the break area. In the next second, the plane righted itself, causing the prisoners to shout for joy. At least it was better than hitting the ground when you weren’t ready to land.

Lynn popped his belt and hurried to the front of the plane where the other deputies were gathering. Everyone was talking at once and it wasn’t anything you’d hear in church. If prayers were said, they were mental and silent as they tried to stay calm. The pilot cabin was locked and secure, but they called the flight crew on the plane phone. Hi-tech stuff.

They just hoped they got an answer, since no one else knew anything about landing. Lynn always said that landing was the hardest part. Staying in mid-air was next.

The pilot answered and said “I guess you heard that engine blow.” Duh. “You’ll be happy to know it’s no longer burning, but neither can we continue our flight. We’re returning to the airport. Sorry for the delay, we know you’ll all be please to get on the ground, at the newly re-scheduled destination. Our estimated time of arrival is about 10 minutes, if the other engine holds, which we have no reason to believe it won’t. Enjoy your flight, and please put your trays in the upright position. You might want to have a seat, and fasten your seatbelts.”

They did. About the time they were snuggly fastened and tightly belted, they saw the landing strip ahead, full of emergency vehicles and fire trucks. Lynn said it was not comforting, because he had not thought of fire upon landing until that moment.

The prisoner next to him said “I guess it’s a good thing I already kissed my ass. You have family?”

The deputies never used their real names on flight, and they never ever mentioned anything about home. You didn’t want these guys who had friends on the outside, being able to use anything to get their needs met by manipulating information or causing harm to someone like ME.

So, Lynn ignored the question.

As the plane came to a stop, Lynn began the “unshackling” process, which only meant that the shackles fastened to the floor were taken loose, their feet were still connected to a separate chain. When he finished, he looked up, and was stunned. The man in the wheel chair was now up and walking very rapidly, with NO APPARENT PROBLEM, making his way off the plane.

Lynn turned to another deputy and said “I think I’ve just seen the Lame Walk. It’s a MIRACLE, A MIRACLE!!”

No one could get off the plane fast enough. Including the crippled guy.

Life went on, your tax dollars know no rest. The next day, the flight was repeated in a different plane, and once again, the lame was back in the wheel chair. Evidently, the miracle had a short life.

O ye, of little faith.

-I am Marisue, telling the story of a cop’s life.

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I know. It’s embarassing to even bring the subject up. We all do it and we all go through every day pretending we don’t. Like me for instance. This entire story will be told at my husband’s expense.

Well, gee. You didn’t think I did this kind of thing did you?

It’s him. He does it everywhere and he even blames me. I can be standing next to him in the check out lane and…well, I just can’t bare to say it. Lean close. Come on, lean in closer. Right next to the monitor…he passes wind.

You know. Wind. Gas, Air, okay make me say it…he farts. I do apologize for those I’ve just offended. I must warn you, it’s going to get worse.

If you’re under 18 and living in a virgin house that is free from, uh, gas…then please read no further. You do not want to know what a grown man does in public places, and some places not so public. It’s completely unnatural and evidently there is no cure.

Personally, I think it’s a guy thing. Well, maybe not, but the sheer enjoyment and pleasure of passing gas for a man is just a strange phenomenon. They are so into the moment. You’ve seen that, right?

For the past 32 years, I have been subjected to sheer torture. I am confessing now that I’ve had my moments of being tempted to walk out, but what about the children? I think about it though, everytime he pulls his passing wind stunts.

What brought this to mind is that he did it again, the other day right in front of God, and everyone in the store. He always catches me off guard. There we are, walking down the canned bean aisle and it must have been the power of suggestion from the beans, because I heard this god-awful roar. I prayed it was thunder, but no.

Automatically I held my breath. Experience, my friends (I do apologize for those words, McCain has made them so painful even to write), it’s just experience. You hear the roar and if you value your life you will hold your breath, and then you’ll push that cart away at a trot. “Away” is the key word.

His next comment is so predictable. He will turn abruptly, with a shocked look on his pink face and say loudly “Mari SUE!!”

Like I did it!! And, what are you going to say back to that?? “I didn’t do it - it was YOU!” Ha! People look knowingly and in pure sympathy at him. I can hear their thoughts “Poor woman, has she been this way long?” They always think it’s me. He is such a liar and performer…it’s probably all those years on the police force, don’t you think?

He’s just not human.

I could slice and dice that man in that moment, and I am not a violent woman. He is so lucky I stay with him. The grocery store is not the worst place this happens. Oh, no. Not by a long shot. I have many memories of moments of embarassing flatulence.

Here, are the Top Ten Embarassing Places To Pass Gas:

1. Do NOT get on an elevator with this man. He will wait, until it’s full of people and you can’t move and — well, he just let’s it rip. This one is silent.

What hurts my feelings is that when people begin to cough and stir around, fervently searching for that one delicious breath of freshness, he looks at the one next to him and jerks his head in my direction and then rolls his eyes.

While I’m busy melting into the floor, he’s causing everyone to look in my direction. He’s a mean man. I think silent gas is the worst and entirely not fair. Where is your defense against such a thing!!

At that moment I can not be trusted to speak.

I carry air freshner but dragging that out would only convince them it was me. Instead, my innocence is validated by the slightly blue tinge to my face from holding my breath. Living proof of purity. Why would you hold your breath if the gas was yours? See!?! You know what I’m talking about, but does anyone on the elevator take time to think of that??? No!! They are too busy giving me dirty looks while they gasp for air!

They hate me. Well, they’re strangers, why do I care?

2. Do NOT attend a business meeting of 100 people in the same room and sit next to him. For some reason, he thinks the large room and the 100 people absorb the sound. So, these gassy moments are not silent. Oh yes, plural as in more than one. I try to sit on the end of the row but it’s not always possible. The sound is deafening and long. What happened to the little short ones??

He just sits there. No embarassment. Nothing, until, slowly, he’ll turn his head to me and put his hand on his hip. His little “Well, I never!” look would stop a herd of elephants.and he can hold that position for a full 30 seconds.

As if on cue, someone will clear their throat and breaks have been called for no apparent reason. “We’ll all take a 10 minute bathroom break, folks. Uh, Make that 15 minutes.”

I never know what happens next because I’m outta there like greased lightning. People won’t even look in my direction when the meeting starts up. Magically, I have tons of elbow room on the now nearly vacant row. I like wiggle room, but it would be nice to have someone to talk to though.

I’m so alone.

3. When you’re riding in the car, and you notice his leg stiffen and press against the floorboard…roll the window down, quick. Don’t ask questions, just do it. Even the dog moves to the back of the car. It’ll take about 20 miles to air everything out, so just be patient. What I don’t get is…the dog looks at me funny, too. Like his master is so perfect. I get no respect.

4. If you’re sitting with us in a restaurant, and the meal is finished, beware. The worst is yet to be. Why can’t he just belch like the rest of us? Oh, he’ll get up to go to the bathroom, AFTER he gives us all the gift. Once again, he’ll blame me. He looks at me and leans in to whisper. THEY think he’s whispering a correction, but it’s really “Honey don’t blush, they’ll think it’s you.”

I want to run to the bathroom, but if I do, it will remove all doubt in their opinion. So, I sit still, and try not to cough. Suddenly, everyone’s tired and has to go home. It’s his way of controlling the night. I just know it is.

He needs therapy.

5. Do you like movies? I used to. We don’t go often anymore. He just can’t pay attention to the story. He HAS to invent his own drama. I think sometimes people think it’s the movie, but technology hasn’t gone that far. And aren’t we all thankful. Popcorn couldn’t even compete. Where do men get that smell?

The darkness was my only comfort.

6. Don’t even think about getting in the hot tub together. If you do, make sure the bubbles are already moving and do not laugh so hard you sink under the water. It’s no better under there.

I’m telling you, he has no pride.

7. I never accompany him to the Dr office. Oh, no!! I’m not having him convince them it’s me, and have them probe me with whatever. Nada. Ain’t happenin’ - he’s on his own if he gets sick.

Compassion escapes me at times.

8. Cooking together should be a pleasure. Lately, he can just cook by himself. When I stalk out he has the nerve to ask “WHY? Honey! What’d I dooo?”

Let me just say that some odors do not mix well with frying chicken. When he is really feeling good and energetic, I can’t even say pass the salt. When your napkin is stuffed in your mouth it’s hard to talk.

I have such an easy gag reflex, I just can’t help it.

9. Our dog loves sitting in his lap, at the end of the day, they are great pals. The dog is not perfect either. Little Buddy gets blamed for many things. You can always tell what really happened, though. If you smell something, and the dog doesn’t move…Buddy did it. On the other hand, if Buddy goes flying off the lap and lands across the room in one single quantum leap, rest assured, my husband was the guilty party.

Trouble is, he doesn’t even wake up. More proof of my innocence in elevators. If you’re not gaggin…well I rest my case. The Nose Knows.

10. I’ve save the best for last. Night time is scarey. I tip toe into the room and try to sneak into the bed. Shhh. Don’t wake him up and please, dear god, don’t ever, ever, ever, raise the sheets.

Life is not fair.

I am Marisue, and I do apologize, for what I wrote, talking about a cop’s wife’s life… 

This post was first written by me at http://hubpages.com/hub/Top-10-Really-Embarassing-Places-to-Pass-Gas  I placed it here to honor the man behind the badge.

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“…telling the story of  a cop with a heart and common sense is going to take awhile…so come back often.  Let’s begin.” -Lynn

There are more of us than you think.  It’s just that cops with hearts and brains don’t normally shout about it.  The only reason I can now, is that me and my badge are retired.

And, boy, am I going to talk.  After thirty years behind the badge, it’s about time to let it out.

There’s more to being a cop than being tough and pushing people around.  We’re supposed to protect and serve! 

A cop with a heart understands the book, and doesn’t break the rules, but bends them on occasion.  We’re all human, and just because we’re wearing a uniform doesn’t mean we have to be jerks.

On a dark rainy night, many years ago, one of my men stopped a car because the tag was out of date.  The driver was going home from her night shift.  She had 3 kids home alone, from 13 down to 2.  She told the officer she was getting paid in 2 days and would bring her receipt for the tag to him at the office.   She was nearly in tears, exhausted and on her last dime, just wanting to get home to sleep.  She’d been driving the dark streets, hoping to not be stopped as she drove with her expired tag.

He called in for a tow truck, and was going to arrest her being disrespectful to an officer.  I heard him on the radio and I broke in telling him to hold his position, I was on my way.

When I got there, he was pacing and the young woman was crying softly with her head buried in her hands.

I pulled the officer aside and asked him a question.  ”Doug (name changed to protect the guilty) do you remember me stopping you for driving like an ass when you were a teen?”

“Yessir,” said Doug, “You were good to me.”

I continued, “Remember the time you had the pot in the car?”

Doug gulped. “Yes.”

“Remember me calling your parents and keeping my eye on you for the next year telling you I was going to kick your ass if you did anything stupid again?”

“Yes. You gave me a break.  I was just 16 and that’s why I’m a cop today.”

“You grateful, Doug?”

“You know I am.”  Doug was hanging his head and looking over at the woman nervously.

“Then show it.  Pass the breaks on to those who deserve it.  What is it going to hurt you to follow her home so she gets there safely, and let her get her tag.  Show some courage.  Anyone can write a damn ticket.   You gonna  arrest her for cryin’ and raisin’ her voice?? Christ!  What are you gonna do when someone spits in your face? Shoot ‘em?  If you don’t want to babysit her kids all night, let her go home.”

Doug looked at me.  He was silent, then nodded.  ”I get ya, sir. I get ya.”

He motioned for the young woman to come over to the cop car.  Tearing up her ticket, he wrote her a warning, and said “You go on home, now.  Payday, you get that tag and bring the receipt in to me.  This is just a warning.  Have a nice night.”

I play-punched him on the shoulder, got back in my car…and continued the beat.  Doug was going to be a good cop when he learned that there was strength in letting some people have a break.

—I’m Lynn, the man who drove the beat, behind the badge, for thirty years.

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Lynn was always gone when I needed to go to the cellar, but we did try to keep it stocked and reasonably safe, since the cop was busy and the cop’s wife panicked in cellars.

Cellars, can be a dreaded place, if you suffer from claustrophobia, which I do.  I’m not dysfunctional or anything.  I’ve never had therapy.  I hardly ever notice it unless I’m under a blanket, under the house, stuck in an elevator, wearing a hat, fighting with a tight turtleneck sweater, in a closed 4 x 4 room, you know, things like that.   

I hardly break a sweat if it’s something not on that list.  I’m cool. Living in Oklahoma has taught me a thing or two about cellars. 

One, they’re dark.  Two, they’re really dark, and Three, they’re really dark and damp.

I’ve compiled a list of everything you should know about a cellar, but were afraid to ask.  If you’ve got some things you’d like to add, feel free.

1. Cellars can be fun.  If you’re 5 years old, don’t have to go potty, or poop, it’s not a bad place. 
2. You can never have enough snacks, and if you live in Tornado Alley, keep your cellar well stocked with crispy things that go crunch. 
3. Store everything in plastic bags or containers and wrap them in paper towels so they stay drier than the air you’re going to be breathing down in that deep, dark, damp hole.
4. Cellars are not fun if you’re not a 5 year old and an adult who has to go to the bathroom, both ways.
5. Cellars are not fun, if someone has just used the porta-potty.
6. Bring Air Freshner.
7. Cellars are boring.  Bring games and don’t let “I Spy” be one of them.
8. Spiders love cellars.
9. Mice loves cellars.
10. Roaches live in cellars.
11. You can’t kill roaches, they are indestructible.
12. Roaches multiply worse than rabbits.
13. Everything mildews. 
14. Don’t lay on the bed without shaking all the covers and examining every inch for bugs that don’t respond to shaking.
15. Roaches are bugs that don’t respond to shaking.
16. Snakes hide in cellars and come out when you doze.  Don’t doze.
17. Have an ax to chop your way out should something land on your cellar door.
18. Add a prybar and a shovel.  You can’t have too many tools in a cellar.
19. Kids cry.
20. Kids laugh at kids crying.
21. The cellar door is heavy and does not stay in your hand during a 70 mile an hour wind gust.
22. Go to the cellar before the wind gets to the level of 70 miles an hour.
23. Don’t be afraid.
24. That’s ridiculous, be very afraid.
25. Be more afraid of spiders.
26. Spiders drop from the ceiling of cellars.  They’re not just trying to say “Hi!”
27. Check the cellar for cobwebs before Tornado Season.
28. Cobwebs stick to your hair.
29. Sometimes cobwebs are really spider webs in disguise.
30. Check batteries more often than once every 5 years.
31. Take a radio that fits the batteries. They do have to match in size required.
32. Store toilet paper in plastic wrap.
33. Answer the same question from your child 122 times with patience. This has a selfish motivation; crying echoes in the chamber.
34. Learn to smile through gritted teeth without scaring the children.
35. Lie.  “Everything is going to be fine, Daddy will be here soon.”
36. Don’t worry about the lie, it’s acceptable.
37. Pack an emergency first aide kit and remember where you put it in the deep dark damp cellar.  Someone will smash their finger.
38. Have lights, lots of lights in various sizes.
39. Forget the alcohol, unless it’s rubbing alcohol, this is no time for a party.
40. Have pen and paper. Writing your thoughts is good therapy.
41. Make sure you have personal identification on your body, don’t ask why.
42. Call people before the storm, so they know you’re going to the cellar, just in case later, they can’t find you.
43. Don’t paint your cellar red.  It’ the color of panic. 
44. Don’t panic.

It’s all going to be okay.  See rule about lying. 

– by Marisue, telling the stories of a cop’s wife’s life.

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You learned to live with the weather channel and local news in your ear during the Spring and early Summer, especially. 

 Though I am a woman of few phobias, I hate cellars.

Still, only a fool would avoid one when it’s time to go.   The local cops, during a stormy day or night, were often out on the highways and country road, storm watching. 

In the days before everyone had a cell phone, Lynn would try to make a quick run home with stern warnings to get to the cellar the moment it was necessary and to stay alert. 

He knew that my fear of dark and spiders, would make me hesitate.  You don’t want to wait ’til you hear the roar to go to the cellar.  Not only could the cellar door be deadly and ripped out of your hands,  if you’re also holding kids, the door and pets…well, you get the picture.

One word of caution.  Forget the umbrella, get wet.  Keep towels in the cellar, fresh water, fresh batteries for radio and light, snacks for comfort, even a game or two for the kids.  Did I say Lights, lots of lights???

I went to the cellar many nights with just me and the kids, hating every second, worried about my husband, and he worrying about us.  It was the way we lived but I will tell you a secret.

When people griped about cops, thought we were well paid (HA!), thought we had perks, I was so tempted to get into their face.  

However, not only does a cop’s wife have to go to the cellar alone, she frequently has to keep her mouth shut.

-I am Marisue, telling the stories of a cop’s wife’s life.

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As a cop’s wife, I saw my role as helping him heal from the negative mental video that played in his mind.  As a family, we tried to make up for the negative.  Some cops are rejuvenated by their home life, some are destroyed by it.

Many times cops are accused of being married to their job, yet in their defense, they need to be totally focused for their own safety, and for the safety of others.  They can’t be worrying about bills at home, or their last argument with wife or the kids.  Sound familiar?

The good cop makes sure he keeps his family ties strong.  Being there is not always comfortable and easy, but it’s important even to make the effort.  Cops have a high rate of divorce; it’s a tough life for families.  Those marriages that have staying power are the ones with wives who can be alone, and are not a “dependent” personality, and  who actually enjoy their husband’s job.  

You can’t be afraid to attend activities alone, being flexible is the rule of the day for a cop and his family!

It can be very exciting, a little scarey, full of pressure, all mixed in with an amount of pride in the work they do.

Being a dad, extends into the grown child years.  My oldest son has a busy job running a club and it steals his daylight hours.  When the brakes went bad on his car, he not only didn’t have the energy to repair them, he didn’t have the time.

Dad to the rescue.  Lynn drove the miles across Tampa Bay, repaired the brakes, and returned to work.  Exhausted, but that’s a good dad’s life. 

Here’s to good cops who balance work and home, everywhere!

by: Marisue, talking about the cop’s wife’s life. 

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It’s amazing what comes home from the police department.  My cop always left clean, he smelled good, looked good, my man, Lynn.  What walked back in the door was anyone’s guess.

I’m a strong woman, one of few phobias, not prone to panic.  I thought. Twenty-five and pregnant, I still had a lot to learn. 

As a young married couple, and really even now, we have a lot to talk about.  Then, life was full of adventure, and we would give up sleep to talk about it.  Can you imagine?  Now, it’s “Honey could you tell me in the morning, I’m dead.” 

Lynn worked the night shift for years and years.  He wasn’t really a night owl, but that’s where the excitement is if you’re a cop, even in a small town. 

One night, he came home about 2:00a.m. and unfortunately he was locked out.  He pounded on the door, and of course, I went to the door, belly first as I was 6 months pregnant. 

You’re about to ask “What was he thinking!!”

I opened the door and screamed.  His shirt and part of his face was covered in blood.  My hand flew to my mouth, my eyes to his face and back to his chest.  He looked like he’d been shot.  He froze, I froze, we were both a sight.

I guess he saw my eyes try to roll back into my head so he jumped through the door saying “I’m alright, I’m alright, most of it’s not my blood.” 

MOST OF IT??

Yeah, that was my question too, only I couldn’t speak on account of I was about to throw up.  I didn’t know blood stunk.  It’s a sharp metallic smell that burns the nose and throat. 

I backed up to the couch and dropped like a heavy rock.  Lynn was talking, repeating over and over “I was in pursuit and when he stopped, as I was telling him to put his hands behind his back he turned and came at me with his fist, he was holding a tire iron,  but all I saw was motion so I drew my baton, rather quickly I might add, and hit him.  He hit me first, and I hit him a second later.  See?  This is his blood and this part’s mine.  See my eye?  It’s turning black, I think.  That’s what bled, head wounds bleed a lot, see he hit me here on the temple. Man, I’m pretty lucky, he had to have stitches from the baton.”

“Lynn!, Lynn!, please, stop, don’t tell me anymore, take your shirt off, I can’t stand to look at it!!”

Cops!!   They’re so in awe of their job. 

After this eventful night of fright, he learned to change clothes before he came home,  and I ask “Whose Blood is it?” before I faint.

It worked, we’ve been together going on 32 years, so all you young cop wives, learn from me.  Ask questions first, faint later.

by: Marisue, talking about the cop’s wife’s life. 

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And, I believe him on penalty of … no shopping.

The following stories are all times of great peril. Please read with caution, as even being this close to someone who is always right can be hazardous to your health. I’m married to him, but I take lots of supplements, just for added protection.

Once upon a time, (all good stories begin that way and this is a good story) on a dark and stormy night, a dangerous drug case came to a close. All men in uniform escaped with their lives. Barely.

For weeks, comings and goings had been studied at a particular location by the men in blue. Copious notes taken by dedicated policemen tracked wicked and evil men and women who frequented this mobile home. Soon, the address was passed on to the next team. The TAKE DOWN team. My husband was honored to be in charge.

Carefully, they plotted their drug bust. They rehearsed the steps:

1. Adam and Ben (all names changed to protect the whatever) would watch the front door and radio the code word “front ready” when the coast was clear.

2. Ted and Bob would cover the back door and radio the code word “back ready” when the coast was clear. (See how good they are?)

3. My Lynn and his faithful assistant, Ralph, after years of practice, would crawl under the house and cut the plumbing so when Adam and Ben, and Ted and Bob made the move to burst through the appropriate door assigned to them, and the very bad and dangerous drug dealers tried to flush their product down the sewer it would land on the ground instead of going down the drain. (See, they ARE good, aren’t they?)

4. On your mark, Get Ready, Get Set, GO! Adam and Ben yelled “Police!” and kicked in the front door. Ted and Bob yelled “POLICE!” and kicked in the back door. Lynn and his faithful assistant Ralph yelled “Now!” and whacked the sewer pipe under the mobile home.

Adam and Ben and Ted and Bob came running out the front door at the same time and yelled to Lynn to crawl out from under the trailer. He crawled. Adam whispered “The guy in the house is 80 if he’s a day.”

Lynn stared. Ralph stuck his head out from under the trailer and stared. Partners work very good together.

Lynn quietly radio’ed in to the station for a confirmation on the location.

When the reply came of 1 0 3 9 Anywhere Street, they all stared. Slowly turning to the front door where the number on the trailer was visible, they read in unison 1 0 9 3.

The confused old man came to the front door “Hey, Mr. PoliceMan! What’s going on?”

Lynn, being in charge, said “Sir, we wanted to advise you that you have a plumbing leak under your trailer, and you’re going to need to get that seen about pretty quick.”

Lynn and Ralph, Adam and Ben, Ted and Bob quickly pointed to the area beneath the trailer house and said, “uh, yeah, that’s a real hazard, you get that fixed now…and your back and front door are not very secure either.” Being very skilled in entering and exiting, they all piled into their 3 police cars and drove away at a rapid speed.

You’ll be happy to know, the caring police officers showed up the next day to secure the weak front and back door for the old man and even brought a plumber. They are always ready to help the elderly.

The real culprits were later detained which led to a much larger dope case being solved where all received due time for the crime. Another happy ending due to great investigative work by my man and HIS men.

——-

Once upon a time, on another dark and stormy night, a police officer named Dave stopped the driver of a car for a traffic violation. As he approached, the car sped off down the street. Dave followed in hot pursuit. Up and down the streets they went, Dave calling in for back up, the traffic violator speeding through town. Soon, they were heading to the country. Dave, the cop, had all he could do to keep the car in sight as it went over and down the hills of the dark twisting roads. Finally, he glimpsed the glint of metal in the nano second of moonlight and yanked the car left down a dirt road. He HAD his man!

Policeman Dave, did not know what road he was on. The suspect had jerked his car over to the side, jumped out of it and was moving fast on foot. Where were they?? Dave could not radio his location. Did he follow policy and turn around to go back to town? No. Dave-the-brave pulled up quickly and jumped out of the car, running after the big bad suspect who was likely guilty of something horrid. Closer and closer he came to the man who ran.

Suddenly, the man who ran stopped. Dave collided into him and down they went. Uh - O. Dave was alone in the dark, at the corner of “Know and Don’t Know,” wrestling with a man who turned out to be tough. Tough enough to grab for the cop’s holster.

Now, Dave is alone on an unknown country road, with no back up, and losing the battle with the traffic violator. He heard the police dispatcher calling for his location. Panic gave him energy and he fought harder to keep the side of his body with the gun holster buried in the dirt. They rolled and rolled further away from the police car. The suspect had a hold on the gun that was still in the holster and somehow began to squeeze off shots. Bam! Bam! Bam! Dave’s leg burned from the gun bursts as if it were on fire! Was he going to die? Gun in hand, the suspect stood up, pulling the trigger one more time. Click.

The gun was empty. Dave swung at the man’s legs and realized he couldn’t see very well. Something sticky was in his eyes. Blood, dirt, and gun powder filled his nostrils. The suspect melted into the darkness, dropping the empty gun. Sirens pierced the thickness of fear. Dave began to crawl back to the police car, breathing the air that told him “I’m alive, I’m alive.” Within a few minutes, Lynn and another officer pulled onto the road, spotting Dave by his car.

Not feeling the blows as they happened, Dave had been pistol whipped with his own gun, and nearly shot. Though bruised and bleeding, he only required a few stitches and a few days off to get over the trauma.

In case you become a cop, and stop someone in a traffic violation, and they decide to run, and it’s a dark and stormy night, and you’re alone and don’t know where you are…don’t get out of the car. Wait for backup! So sayeth the Manual for a very good reason. You could be shot.

Conclusion: The man was apprehended by being traced through his car and did have warrants for his arrest for “ASSAULT.” He now had a more current charge of the same.

———–

Another story follows the path of a bullet. When firing a gun, it’s good to aim at your target, and then actually hit your target, instead of a piece of metal. Bullets have been known to bounce. One highly skilled sharpshooter was at the firing range with other officers of whom Lynn was one. He was not this shooter. I’m being truthful now. There are many things of which he is never wrong about, but this was not one of them. However, he did witness this incident and so I know it’s the truth.

The afore mentioned highly skilled sharpshooter took a quick aim, and anxious to show off his expert skills, fired the weapon at the bulls eye.

Somehow, his arm moved, and the shot went wildly to the left, hitting a metal trim and bounced back, hitting the officer square on the forehead, right between the eyes. I KID YOU, NOT.

The 357 magnum bullet pierced and lodged in the flesh, not causing great harm, but did create a measure of pain. The officer was known from that day forward as “Ricochet.” For some reason, he seemed embarassed but glad to be alive. I guess he forgot the “Ready, Aim, Fire!” part of target practice.

Ricochet did not quit the force, but was more than pleased to present the “Top Shingle Shooter Award” to my husband just a few years later. Read all about it. Cops are good with guns.

The moral of these stories, of which I have many more, is: If you marry a cop, remember he is ALWAYS right.

—–

I first published this article on HubPages.com.

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