In Memoriam

The torrential rains drenching the northern coastal city stopped at midnight. By early morning the frogs populating the nearby waterway sat silent. A slate grey sky began to crack open to reveal whiter clouds and patches of blue. Scattered xanthous daffodils stood tall in a silent salute. A gentle breeze ruffled the flags flying at half mast. As we gathered along Highway 101 near Seaside, waiting for the motorcade to arrive from Camp Rilea, locals began to drift in. TV cameramen aimed and focused their equipment up the road in prepared expectation. A respectful silence weighed heavily on the scene.

At the precise time a motorcycle policeman in full uniform and gear, with
lights flashing, rode slowly along the route. He was immediately followed by a team of riders in formation fronting the main vehicle, a hearse carrying the remains of the slain Seaside policeman, Sgt. Jason Goodding. Thus began a solemn and silent hour-long procession of motorcycles, cars, vans, ambulances and fire trucks all carrying public safety personnel and often their wives, perhaps some wondering if they would be in a similar circumstance one day to honor their spouses. We nodded in acknowledgement and shared grief. The personnel represented municipalities from Seattle to Grants Pass, Seaside to Baker City. The womp, womp, womp of the Coast Guard helicopter's blades, the ones you want to hear when you are floundering at sea, slowly followed the caravan 200 feet above it.

In tight military formation and conduct the officials and representatives made their way through Seaside to the Convention Center and gathered inside. Due to the extremely large number of visitors the ceremony was streamed live to several other locations along the coast where locals could gather to be part of this memorial to one of their own. Following the protocol for law enforcement funerals, the flag-draped casket was wheeled down the center isle, flanked by the pallbearers. A color guard presented the flags as people stood in respect for them. Bagpipes played. Emotional speeches were made. A slide show reflected on Sgt. Goodding's life and community involvement.

At the end of the two and a half hour service his coffin's flag was slowly and meticulously folded by the pallbearers and graciously presented to Mrs. Goodding by a senior officer on bended knee. He spoke a few private words to her. The emotion of the moment rippled through the crowd as muffled sobs could be heard throughout the auditorium and Mrs. Goodding clutched the flag to her breast, weeping softly. Each daughter, in turn, received her honorary flag and a whispered comment by the presenter. The girls were young; eight and thirteen years respectively. So young to lose a father.

A lone bagpiper played Amazing Grace.

In the closing moments of the service a dispatcher was heard making the last call:

"10-600 to 604. Status check?"  

A long pause.  Breath-holding silence.

"10-600 to 604. Status check?"

A long pause.  Deafening silence.

"10-600 to 604. Status check?"

"End of contact with 604. All units. 604, Sgt. Jason Goodding is out of service. End of watch February 5, 2016. Gone but never forgotten."

The final picture on the large overhead screen read "You stand relieved; we have the watch."

And so another law enforcement officer's life has been taken in defense of the public's safety. Sgt. Jason Goodding lived out the law enforcement and safety service brotherhood's motto: To Protect and Serve. He served to his last breath.

Service video coverage here.

Two Sides of Persistence

full for the moment.......

Nights are long when sleep evades, especially during wintery January. The darkness narrows visual stimulation and the mind runs wild with thoughts, scenic reruns and looped tapes. Tiring of this routine with its constant tossing and turning, sighing and gazing about the shadowy bedroom, one that occurs more often than not, I decided a kitchen raid for a little snack might quell the sleeplessness. With stomach grumbling, for it was around 2 a.m., I carefully made my way down the darkened stairway, eschewing lights to keep the melatonin level high and gripping the handrail to ensure safe steps. In familiar surroundings it was easy to navigate in the dark and I felt the edges of the walls and countertops as I moved toward the kitchen sink, having picked up an orange along the way. Standing in the faint illumination of a tiny nightlight I peeled my fruit and wondered what the view from the kitchen window was at this hour.

Racky and Maude were lumbering along their midnight route through the neighborhood, following the scent of past nights through the rain-soaked grassy yards, across paved streets with puddles reflecting the yellowish glow of the streetlight and mounting the long run of fencing that bordered many of the human habitats. This elevated roadway gave them quick access to one of their favorite new snacking spots, the ever-full bird feeders of the lady's side yard. What a treasure she was, always making sure the feeders were full and yet fun enough to require a fresh assault on each visit. Those new fangled gizmos that attached the feeders to the poles were a little too complicated to undo and batting at them didn't cause their release to the ground as before, so a new plan was hatched. This would take teamwork and strength but the reward of black oil sunflowers seeds would be worth it.

Carefully wiping the sticky, sweet orange juice from my hands I pulled the cord to raise the blind. Shades of dark obscured the near view while a nearby industrial complex light source provided a cloud-reflected lighter layer in the distance. As I peered more closely into the night I thought I saw the bird feeders swaying in the wind. The great arc of their swinging seemed a bit much in the absence of the anticipated accompaniment of whispering wind in the fir trees so I looked even more closely and seemed to see a more defined shadow on the fence. Curiosity beckoned me to locate a flashlight. Feeling my way through a drawer I located the kitchen torch and clicked it on for a better look. Any possibility of sleepiness fled with the increased light level.

Four highway sign brilliance of reflecting circles met my beam of light as the shadowy mounds of a certain shade of dark froze mid-reach. Racky, in the supporting role, was counterbalancing Maude's bulk as she leaned precariously out over the empty garden space, front arm extended in a sweeping motion to skillfully snag a clawnail on the maximum security prison wire barrier that had truly, as advertised, been keeping the pesky squirrels at bay. With Racky holding what I imagined was her tail or rump, Maude slowly stretched her other tiny paw with its opposing thumb through the wires and into the feeder, retracting it with a fist full of seeds, all the while keeping an eye on the beam of light streaming from the kitchen window.

As my astonishment bled into irritation and then morphed into action I slid the window open hoping the sound would cause the rascals to leave yet not awaken the granddog sleeping nearby. They were obviously seasoned thieves as they barely flinched and continued stuffing their little cheeks with MY bird seed. Stepping up the skirmish I tapped on the window as Maude once again reached into the feeder. This sound only served to give her momentary pause and she continued her reach as if to say "did you hear something Racky?"

Being at a distinct disadvantage inside, clad in pajamas and bare feet and not really wanting to make direct contact with the enemy, I thought to turn on the faucet full blast and extend the sprayer up to the window screen for a water shot that would surely send the beasts scrambling. Firehose power it was not as the spray fell woefully short of the fence and its occupants. Was that a raccoonish snicker I heard? Embarrassment only served to fuel the irritation of failure. Momentarily reconsidering a dash outside I again rejected the idea as comical and useless, not to mentioned stirring the neighborhood dogs as well as awakened humans thinking criminals were afoot.

Summoning all my nocturnal willpower I jiggled the flashlight beam all around them, willing them to give up and leave. They, in turn, willed me to burn up my batteries or come outside and duke it out in person. Racky, either wise or chicken, was the first to turn and disappear on the other side of the fence leaving Maude to stare me down. Slowly, as if trying to save face, she side-stepped along the fence, alternately glancing at the seed supply in the feeder and then back at the human in the kitchen window as she made her way into the overhanging branches of the weeping purple fountain beech tree.

Feeling victorious yet somehow outsmarted, I doused the torch and bumbled off to bed in the dark, certain that I had saved some of the bird seed for the morning round of birds that would come for breakfast. I would have to rethink the feeder situation during daylight hours.

Racky and Maude gathered in the damp grass and dark of the neighboring yard and began planning another stealth attack.

Morning came right on schedule and I, short on sleep, groggily stared out my kitchen window, steaming coffee cup in hand, and saw not one single bird seed left.

Although the receipt called to me (see the previous post), I stubbornly refused to wave the white flag. Acquiescing to the squirrels was one thing but voracious nocturnal bandits were to be conquered. Donning my new flower-print yard boots for their maiden foray into the mud and grass, I determined to relocate the feeder stand so that it was not within leaning, reaching or climbing distance from any structure yet near enough to be viewed, surrounded by fluttering finches, from my kitchen window. That was, after all, the whole point of bird feeders. Armed with duct tape, bricks and copper tubing I examined my yard for an appropriate location.

duct tape and weights

Grabbing the heavy patio umbrella stand that served to keep the feeder pole upright, I dragged it to a spot that seemed most likely to deter Racky and Maude. Packing the space around the pole with the copper tubing and miscellaneous wood stakes I tightly duct taped the whole package together to keep the pole as immoveable as possible. After weighting the base with bricks and boulders I refilled the feeders and hung them once again by the trusty carabiners. At least they worked. Now to wait for darkness to fall.

Once again, sleepless and restless, I felt my way through the dark house to my kitchen window and raised the blind, orange in one hand, flashlight at the ready. One of the heavy stones at the base of the feeder pole had been rolled away in an obvious climbing adventure but all the others remained in place. All's quiet on the northern front.......for now.