In my early days of childhood, I'd never seen my father cry. He had a great sense of humor and could make a person smile even when they didn't want to. My father had a way of becoming the spotlight at every family get-together and we would all gather around him like roadies to a rock star, hanging on his every word. No matter how serious the situation, he was always there to comfort us with a story, to lighten the situation with a joke, and then to help us understand why things were the way they were. Long before we were ready; however, the laughter was gone...
As a child, I recall spending hours sitting in the floor next to my father's easy chair as he shared stories of his life. "Did I ever tell you about the time..." he would always begin. I could picture myself next to him as he walked me through tales of his childhood, his teenage years, and then his career in law enforcement. "Everyone has a calling," he would say, "and helping people is mine."
While I was in grade school, I would proudly announce to my classmates that my father drove a patrol car with lights, sirens, and a CB radio. As soon as the bell rang, I would dash out of the school building and race my little brother to the car so I could sit up front. "If we chase bad guys, daddy, can I turn on the lights?" He would throw back his head, laugh, and tell me, "I've put in a pretty long day, so I don't think there's anymore bad guys out there, but if there are, you can certainly turn on the lights." Having my father around was like having my very own Andy Griffith. He was my hero, the strongest, toughest person I knew, and the person helping to make our "Mayberry" a better place to live.
Being a child, I didn't understand the worried look on my mother's face when my father got ready for work. With wide eyes I would watch him fasten the thick, black gun belt that held extra bullets, handcuffs, a nightstick, and mace. He would lower his duty weapon into the holster and snap the buckle closed to ensure it wouldn't leave his side if he had to run after someone. He would slide his feet into freshly polished black boots and slide his uniform pants down over them. His brass badge, that held the words "To protect and serve", and his name badge, that simply read V. Camp, were so shiny they reflected the light whenever he turned toward it. He would put on his hat, kiss my mother good-bye, tell us kids to be good and head out into the unknown. Then, without warning, this ritual stopped.
During the winter of my junior year in high school, my father was in and out of the hospital. Normally a large, strong man, his body began to look frail and weak. He had to take a leave of absence from the job that was so much a part of his life, but I had no doubt that he would soon be back at work, chasing bad guys, telling stories, and making people laugh. Instead, he began to look sad, his sense of humor seemed to vanish, and a few times, to my surprise, I saw him cry. I didn't know it at the time, but he had pancreatic cancer and the doctors knew he would not survive.
On March 10, 1987, my world was shattered and time stood still while my hero passed away. At his funeral, I remember slowly approaching the casket that held my father. There he lay in the same blue uniform I'd seen him in a thousand times. I reached over to shift his glasses slightly to the left, the way he always wore them.
On his chest was the badge, "To protect and serve." I wondered how he managed to dodge bullets, survive a car accident, and face death so many times, but always make it through each day. Now, something no one had ever expected had taken him from us. "Who will protect us now, daddy?" I whispered. "Who will make us laugh?" Gone was his crooked smile, his deep laugh, and I waited for him to tell me that everything would be alright, but he didn't. Instead, the silence replaced the laughter as I told my father good-bye a final time.
"Who's this, mommy?" My son asked as we were flipping through an old photo album. "That's your grandpa," I smiled. "Who's he holding?" He asked. I looked down at the picture. "Me, honey." I smiled, "he's holding me." I looked down into my young son's eyes and knew it was time to bring back the laughter and the stories my father shared with me many years ago.
And so I began, "Did I ever tell you about the time..."
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