Rubber guns

When you are a police academy recruit, they don’t just turn “sidearms” over to you when you are practicing being a cop. They will allow you to practice shooting with a real gun at the firing range, but that is about it. The rest of the time, you are given a little red rubber gun that is really an actual mold of such weapon.

BB had “night problems” in which his academy deployed to a local university campus and had to act out scenarios put on by neighborhood police departments and the academy. The guys were able to drive cruisers (at speeds much too exhilirating) and pretend to chase down the bad guys and so forth. The university that this all took place at just happened to be the one BB had graduated from and the one I was attending during the time BB spent in the academy. Lucky for me, I knew too much! BB had been illegally living in my dorm room with me and I knew his schedule like the back of my hand. So, the nights he had night problems sucked because it was after a long day doing the regular academy stuff, ran into our time together and was just a pain in general. Anyhoot…

On the evening of night problems after BB had left, I decided to go and chase them down via my trusty bicycle. The guys were broken down into groups but lucky me, I came across his group first. I stayed just far enough away and hid inside one of the college buildings so I could keep my eye on him and see what was up. It was sort of fun being all secretive. He never knew that I had planned that and never saw me there that night. I was only able to watch for a bit because the darkness was coming in and it would probably have been too dangerous for my bike to be out and about in the southerly, less traffic-ed areas of campus.

I digress.

The little red gun, right? Well an obvious requirement of recruits is to be able to shoot a gun fairly accurately.  In order to account for such things, they had different firing range levels that they had to pass. They shot at this black and white picture of a guy that was taped up to a target opposite of where they were standing. BB had no problem with most of his shooting. Then he encountered a range that gave him troubles. He tried that first day, was given multiple chances and couldn’t pass. The stress set in. The next opportunity they gave him, same thing except he knew that if he could not pass the next time, he was pretty much done in the academy. Talk about pressure, right?

The eve of the last time he went to shoot, he slept with the little red rubber gun. He said that all during his high school football playing years, he would sleep cradling the football and it seemed to do the trick for the next day’s game. I just went with that… how can you argue with such logic, right?

Not sure what the circumstances were that day but I was back at home and he was still in the city where the academy was for the day. I remember waiting to hear from him because I was SO nervous that he wouldn’t pass. The implications of that day were ridiculous. If he failed, he would fail the academy and not be able to pursue the profession he had dreamed about since he was 16. If he passed, it would be the next step to something great happening in his professional life and the key to opening the door to our future together.

I remember being in the kitchen doing something and was sure I heard a car in the driveway. I ran to the front door and there he was in his little academy get-up SMILING! The hug that followed, the relief and the excitement still bring tears to my eyes. I felt so happy for him. It was amazing. 

The rest of the academy went along swimmingly. He studied, he succeeded as he did at almost everything he attempted or put his mind to. He graduated from the police academy in April of 2000.

It was a very happy day.

Lots of room to make an @$$ out of u and me.

I don’t swear by the way but that is how the expression goes, right?

I think it was the day after he died, after we went to the funeral home, that we also took a trip to the cemetery. This decision alone didn’t come easy. At the hospital we were forced to quickly make the call in regard to which funeral home we wanted to chauffer my husband around and where we wanted him driven to. Well, the funeral home choice was easy, a family friend owned one- he went there. His mom wanted a local cemetery too. One with a religious affiliation that their family did not practice. I couldn’t agree, for that reason and distance.

My husband and I had actually talked about this briefly on one of our many trips to the city where I grew up. This city is right next to a lake and the cemetery beside it was where my grandparents were buried. We talked about being buried there, assuming it would be another 60-70 years until we needed the plots. Well, I knew immediately that this was not an option. My husband was a police officer (another story for another day) and we lived in his department’s jurisdiction. I knew of a cemetery about 5 minutes from my house and thought it was nice looking. I suggested this and his family agreed. To this day, I am glad that I made that choice. There have been times when I have talked with police about the incidents that happen there around Halloween time.  Also, I know the PD has a good relationship with the secretary in the office there. It makes me feel that my husband is more protected. It just so happens to be that our plots are in the same square? block? as one of my husband’s collegues from a few years prior.  He never really knew her but we knew of the circumstances that caused her death and knew that her plot would be watched over too. At least I hope they still remember…

When talking with the lady about where he would be buried within our newly purchased plots, I could tell she was assuming that it was my MIL’s husband that had passed. I am the one who caught the error and pointed out that it was indeed my husband that we were ‘planting’. “Oh, it’s your husband?” Yes, I am the very, very lucky one, lady.

Family jurisdiction, yes, I am using that word again because I like it today, has been strange around the grave. I paid for and tried to receive input from his family, on the marker. I always refer to it as “the stone” but I don’t want to confuse my dear readers. The input I got was a suggestion for an all black one but I had already decided that part. I ordered the biggest one I could afford and looked online for ideas. I didn’t want a plain one, I wanted it to be special and different. I did find one online that I modeled ours after. Uh-huh, OURS. Apparently my choice of buying a plot for myself was daring enough but then to use the same marker for me to?! WOW they said, even though I didn’t hear it, I saw it in their eyes. Everyone assumed I would marry again and oh the problems that would cause, right? Nope. A whole bunch of years, one husband and one child later, I am still counting on that piece of ground as the home of my special hole.  My picture is even lasered on the thing so you really can’t miss!

The stone has all sorts of whimsical-like features including colored paint. I loved it brand new. I still love it now but it desperately needs some touch up as it faces the sun all day. The trouble is I am scared to death of wrecking it in the process of painting it. I swear I will do it each summer and each summer ends with the stone looking worse and worse. Speaking of which, after I sold our home, I moved an hour from the cemetery. This has really been a hard thing- again with the jurisdiction. Initially, I took over all the planting and care of the weeds and such. My husband’s dad would use a special brush to get the stuck mowings off of it and fertilize the grass and plants. When I lived close, I would spend so many hours each evening there after dusk just watering and watering so that his grass would grow in nice and thick. I think it was therapeutic. I watered anyone’s plot I could reach with my short hose. I miss those days. I wish I could still do that every night before bed.   Now that I am farther away, I assumed his family would pick up the slack so to speak. As far as I know, his mom doesn’t go there except at special times of the year and his dad used to go there once a week before he retired. Upon my most recent visit, I don’t think this is the case anymore. It is sad and I must make a point to get up there and take care of it. That being said…

I have a relationship with that stone and our mini flower garden there. I feel like taking care of all of that reflects on my feelings for my husband. I was SO proud the day it was delivered (a multi-week wait as the stone hailed from India) and raced like a mad woman to get there and see it. I called the family to let them know but I don’t think anyone cared. I guess they didn’t have that same bond to the stone that I did. Maybe they didn’t mind the non-markerness… Did they care at all? Didn’t really help my aloneness but I didn’t know any better at that time. I guess I still don’t now but am making other assumptions?! The family doesn’t always express themselves verbally so it can definitely leave room for guessing.

Sometimes we’ll all show up at the same time, exchange hugs and wonder where all the flowers we have brought will go? I didn’t understand when my FIL said he had some work to do there last fall. I wondered if my authority in the jurisdiction was waning. I still don’t know. I guess it is what it is. That would be all fine and dandy if I could just figure out what it means. I guess that is all for now.