3 OZ.

Words and Image by Randy J Cole

3oz. refers to the wieght of a law enforcement officer's badge. This a memorial to officers who have lost thier lives in the line duty.
Officer Mike Stone of the Bothell Police Department Washington State took the time to pose for my memorial project.

Somebody's Mama Died Last Night

If you are reading this blog for the first time, may I suggest that you read parts I,II,and III of the Sand Box series first. Enjoy and come back.

Randy J. Cole

Prior to the days of 911-enhanced emergency phone systems, law enforcement and other emergency services had to rely on the abilities of call takers to pry basic information from those in need. Not an easy task considering it is damn near impossible to remember what your address, and at times, even your name is when the shit is hitting the fan. I know, because as an officer, I have experienced it myself. Prior to my becoming an officer, before radio communication was common place, many small communities throughout the country used a simple light on a pole located somewhere in the city. The officer would notice when the light was on and stop by the office where the call taker had written down the information given by the caller. That would make Mayberry a pretty darn modern department in the early sixties considering they had radio communications.

This story takes place in a time when Stevens County had radios, but 911 had not made it to our corner of the world yet. It was important that the call taker/dispatcher could dispatch officers, as well as other emergency services, to the location where they were needed. On this cool summer night, I was the only officer on duty for the City of Colville. It was shaping up to be a rather dull night of door shaking and an occasional barking dog type of shift. You’re bored out of your mind, but when the night is over you are relieved that nothing requiring paperwork had happened.

The call came into the Stevens County Sheriff’s Office dispatch center at about three a.m. An elderly woman told the call taker/dispatcher that she was having pains caused from a hernia for which she was being treated. She was able to tell the dispatcher her address and only wanted him to call her son. She could not say what her son’s name was and seemed to be disorientated. Unable to get more information from the caller, the dispatcher asked me to respond to the address and see if I could make contact with the caller. I found the address to be that of a modest, small, neat one-story house located about two blocks from the sheriff’s office. It was also located the same distance from the ambulance parking facility across the street from the sheriff’s office. The ambulance personnel were and still are dedicated volunteers, the same as most small communities throughout the country. The ambulance facility had sleeping quarters, but those on-call could stay at their own homes provided they lived within the city limits of Colville. They would be notified of an ambulance run by a paging system which in no way resembles the pagers of today. As I recall, they were very large boxes that would be placed in one’s home when they were on-call.
The dispatcher kept the caller on the phone and told her that I was at her residence. She responded with, “All I want is for you to call my son”, but yet could not or would not give any information as to who her son might be. She did tell the dispatcher that she was not able to get to the door to unlock it and this information was passed on to me. I walked around to the side of the house and found a light on in what appeared to be a bedroom. The bottom of the window was about five feet from the ground and open about three inches and was also covered with a screen. There she sat on her bed talking to the dispatcher and I made my presence known. At this point, it was not clear that a major medical problem existed, however based on the fact that she could not get off the bed, it was best that we page out the ambulance crew. At about this point, I observed the woman fall back on her bed and passed this information on to the dispatcher. I was able to pry the screen from the window. Fortunately, the window was not locked in place and I quickly slid it open as far as I could. I pulled myself into the open window, a task which would be impossible today. As I slithered my top half into the room, the window, without warning, slammed down on my waist and managed to key my portable radio which was attached to my side. Panic ruled the moment as the unresponsive woman lay on the bed to my left. It was obvious she was not breathing. I was forced to become a circus performer, all the while cussing a blue streak which, unfortunately, could be heard by other law enforcement units throughout the county. I am sure that many of the local citizens who had police scanners sat straight up in bed wondering if they had heard the nice policeman correctly. Somehow I managed to get my right elbow to the window and slid it open to the point where I could roll onto the floor. If the woman was having an out-of-body experience looking down at the scene, I am sure I looked like a monkey humping a football. Everything fell out of my pockets and my gun belt also popped off as if spring-loaded. I jumped to my feet with my radio and advised dispatch that the woman had no pulse and no respiration. I began CPR, as I had been trained, knowing that the ambulance would soon be arriving.
A police officer doing any type of emergency first aid in those days of the early eighties, usually did them without the benefit of any type of protection. Mouth-to-mouth meant just that. People need to be thankful for the developments that have taken place within the last five years such as the advent of the Automatic External Defibrillator or AED. Most small law enforcement agencies carry these in their patrol vehicles. Thousands of lives have been saved with this technology. God how I wish it would have been around back then.
In an effort to keep me informed, the dispatcher advised me that the paging system appeared to be down and that he was attempting to place phone calls to the ambulance crew on-call. These were not the words that I wanted to hear. All I wanted was the sound of the wailing sirens and the flash of red lights bouncing off the light-colored walls and more strength. I provided CPR for seventeen minutes before the ambulance rolled to the front of the house. The crew rushed in and took over the responsibilities of pumping this stranger’s heart and providing the necessary air to her lungs. I collapsed in the corner as if I had just gone fourteen rounds with a heavy- weight boxer. Death is a foe that does not give in to defeat easily. This woman, who had been struck down by what appeared to be a massive heart attack, was loaded into the ambulance and transported to the hospital. I was a total mess and because of the amount of sweat that had drenched my uniform, I went home and changed clothes.
It was about six in the morning before I made my way to the hospital to check on the status of the patient. I was met at the emergency ward entrance by one of the ambulance attendants, who also happened to be my sergeant at the police department. He was very calm as he told me that the lady had passed away and that I had done everything possible. The sun was coming up and it looked as though it would be a beautiful day. My Sergeant looked at me and said, “I need you to do something now. I need you to deliver a death message”. I responded with, “I think I can handle that boss, just tell me where”. He looked a bit surprised as I said that. He removed the pipe from his mouth and said, “You need to tell the chief that his mother just passed away”. I was stunned. I had no idea that the woman who was asking for her son was referring to the chief, my boss. When I arrived at his house, he was in good spirits and family was there as well, visiting from out of town. I broke the news to him and his response was as to be expected by a son who loses the mother who gave him life.
This story doesn’t have a happy ending, but then again, life itself can be painful and all of us experience this type of loss. Police officers are no different and many of those we serve think that we shouldn’t have the right to a bad day. This is a good time to remind the reader that law enforcement officers bleed on the outside as well as the inside, just like everyone else.

An Angel in The Hand is Worth Two in The Bush

When you work with children as a course of your career as opposed to raising your own, you will indeed cross paths with some extraordinary young souls. I say that because we as parents usually consider our own children extraordinary. This story took place sometime between, 1994 and 1996, while I was a D.A.R.E. officer for the Bothell, Washington Police Department. During the school year I was responsible for delivering the anti drug message to seven elementary schools in the city limits of Bothell. I remember many of the 6th graders that were required to listen to my program, most of them because they were really little shits with skin. However, the ones I remember the most were the ones that taught me something. They helped me grow and understand more about human nature then they will ever know. One of these young people went by the name of Charlie. She was a dark haired, quite kid. The other students seemed to ignore her most of the time and I could sense a loss of self-esteem in her eyes. Her skin was somewhat pale when compared to the rest of her boisterous classmates. But something else was present that most would not see. She had a glow about her, almost angelic. She did not speak much during class but managed to smile when the time was right. It was just before Easter and I entered the classroom. Sitting on Charlie’s desk was one of the most amazing Easter egg trees I had ever seen. A limb about sixteen inches tall with small branches surrounding it. No vegetation was present but hanging of each small limb was a hollowed colorful Easter egg. They were attached with ribbons of various colors. I had never seen anything like it. I commented on the art work and Charlie told me that she had been its creator. I was shocked when Charlie said she had made it for me. The work this child had put into it was astounding. It was clear that Charlie had a heart and talent and she remained one of my favorite kids during the rest of time as a D.A.R.E. officer. When I was finished with the class at Charlie’s school I didn’t see her again for sometime.
The Christmas that followed was a cold one for that part of Washington. The officers I worked with on that department were very business like, but most of them had a heart of gold. During that holiday season one of the patrol officers saw Charlie out in the cold pulling a dead bush out of the ground. This was near the little apartment that she lived in. She was accompanied by a few of her siblings. The officer pulled up next to Charlie and asked her what she was doing. Charlie told him that Christmas was at hand. This bush was to be fashioned into a Christmas tree for her siblings. The officer was taken back by what Charlie had said. Imagine a twelve year old girl rising above a horrible situation and trying to provide some sort of normalcy for her family. This is true inner strength. During further investigation the officer found out that Charlie’s family was in a pretty tough spot. Her father was not able to provide for the family and had physically abused her mother as well as the children. The officer organized his shift and they provided not only gifts and a tree for the family, but a party with a Christmas dinner. I was very proud of those guys on that patrol shift and the detectives that took part. I wish I could have been there.
Christmas came and went as did Charlie’s father. He committed suicide within a few months of the holidays. It was tragic yes, but I know the family had been set free in some respects and could move on with their lives.
A few weeks later, I was called to the Police Department to meet with some people in the lobby. I had no idea who it was but as I walked into the lobby I was confronted with an angelic smile. Standing before me was Charlie and her mom and siblings. Charlie had grown in the short time since I had seen her last and I remember making that statement as she rushed up to me and buried her head into my chest and sobbed. All I could do was pat her on the back and tell her it was ok. Her mother smiled and with watery eyes said that Charlie just wanted to say hi and thanked me for treating her well in my class. I felt pretty good for the rest of the day. The family had moved on and was going to be in another part of the state with things seemingly going well. It was about a week later that I received a letter from Charlie’s mom. She said that it was nice to see me that day and that it was the first time Charlie cried since her father had died. She said that I was one of the few male role models she had in her life. I feel very privileged to have been in Charlie’s life even if it was for a short time. I know I always say that I am not religious but I am pretty sure that angels are out there and I am also sure that one of them is named Charlie. I hope that she and her family are doing well and yes, I will even pray for it.

Life in a Sandbox II

May I suggest that you read part one first.


While growing up in our family, we were always fortunate enough to have a four-legged friend around the house. We always had a dog. Never, never a cat. My father disliked cats and I too can live without them. The smell of cat poop has the same effect on me as, well, see elephant reference in part one.
The neighborhood felines loved to hang out at our place because of our sandbox which was located in front of our swing set in the backyard. Nothing like running your hands through the sand in your play area, imitating the effects of a large explosion and ending up with a cat turd (land mine) between your fingers. Most fathers would have likely told their kids to deal with it. I can’t recall my dad ever running his hands through our sandbox, but the sight of his only son gagging must have been more than he could bear.
What a surprise it was to find an indoor sandbox in our basement one day. It was big and deep and it rolled on wheels. This was to be one of the greatest innovations in play history. It sat next to a huge American Flyer train set my dad had built a few years before. The train set was on a big table with little ranch-style houses, tunnels and roadways. My imagination was allowed to run free in that basement like no other kid in town. Without knowing it, I began to live my life out in that sandbox and on that train layout, incorporating the two together. What a deal. I started to collect Matchbox cars and trucks with the money I made from returning Coke bottles to the mom-and-pop grocery store for the deposit. It was a wonderful collection of cars, trucks, tractors and trailers and of course the American Flyer train set.
As time went on, I became more innovative. I would paint my cars and trucks to match my interest at the time. I started out with royal blue because I enjoyed the idea of being in the Air Force. That may have come from my younger days when I would play in my pedal Jeep which was Air Force blue and sported the Air Force logo on the side. As a side note, an 8mm film exists of me pulling a Radio Flyer wagon down our side walk with this Jeep. The Jeep and wagon were tied together with a piece of scrap rope I found in my Dad’s shop. Seated proudly on a wooden stool mounted in the wagon, was the same girl next door mentioned in chapter one. She was adorned in a cape and crown and we appear to be having our own little parade. I think this parade was when I decided that I looked like an idiot, blinking my eyes asking others pull to the right and stop. What the hell was I thinking?
The blue cars and trucks gave way to Forest Service green cars and trucks. I even had a wooden tower that I would place in the sand box and use as a Forest Service lookout. Always looking for realism in my play, I remember deciding that having a tower was no good unless I had a fire to spot. Placing about fifty wooden matches in the sand upright and lighting them was as close as I could get. It was great until the basement filled with smoke. It is truly amazing how much smoke fifty small wooden matches can make. My mother was not impressed nor was my father. The forest was clear-cut from my sandbox never to return. I had to settle for patrolling an imaginary forest with my little green trucks.
The third coat of paint to adorn these Matchbox toys consisted of black and white. I spent hours in that basement with a few select friends patrolling the city streets of the train set and to the country roads of the sandbox.
As it turned out, the three paint job phases I went through with these little cars was more than just play. It really was practice for reality as it pertained to my adulthood. When I graduated from Libby High in 1973, I joined the Air Force. When I got out four years later, I ended up in Washington State. In the spring of 1980, I went to work for the Forest Service. I got to drive one of those green trucks I so admired and played with in my sandbox.
Working in the Colville National Forest was such an opportunity. It was so beautiful and I had the chance to learn how to operate equipment of all shapes and sizes. I was given the option of staying on with the Forest Service as a full-time employee. On the same day as this offer was made by the Forest Service, an ad appeared in the local newspaper. The Colville Police Department was hiring a police officer. At the time, the decision was easy. I needed to follow my boyhood goal of becoming a law enforcement officer. The Colville Police Department was a small agency. Counting the chief and sergeant, it was a 9-man department. As small as it was, it was and still is considered to be a very good police agency. It was a great opportunity for me to start my career as a police officer.
In September of 1980, along with a number of other candidates, I tested for the one position offered. Physically, I was in the best shape of my life thanks to the job I had with the Forest Service. I walked at least seven miles a day in the mountains of the Colville National Forest, carrying hand tools as I went. The physical portion of the test was a breeze. The surprising thing about the process was the ease in which I was able to complete the written exam. My scores were very high. This was strange considering I was a real dumb ass in school. The only explanation seemed to be some type of divine intervention. Something wanted me to be a cop real bad to pull that off. It kind of reminds me of the book, “The Secret.” Maybe that stuff does work and I didn’t have to put down $20.00 for the privilege.

Life in a Sandbox

I shall never forget the thrill of my first traffic stop. The look in the driver’s eyes as I approached her vehicle, the power I possessed, the authority to make life in a small town safer for all. The driver’s eyes filled with distain, fear and respect, all clearly visible to me, the small town cop. It was this young lady’s lucky day. She would be let off with a stern warning this time and an invite to come over and play later, a smooth move for an 8-year old with a badge. My patrol vehicle was a 24” black Hiawatha bicycle from Gambles. My light bar consisted of me blinking each eye in an alternate manner. My siren was a pretty good imitation of a cat slowly being run over by paving equipment, long before the woo-woo-woo type of sirens that are now so common.
My traffic violator, on that sunny summer day, was the girl next door. We were born on the same day in our small northwest Montana town. I guess she learned her lesson. A highly respected member of our community, I still see her driving around town with her kids. I’m pretty sure she still has a clean driving record as well. Glad I could be of service.
I think that day on the sidewalks of the Lincoln County Courthouse was the day I knew at some point in my life I was going to be a law enforcement officer. It was a good day. I also made a decision that if I was going to be an officer, I would not allow myself to indulge in illegal drugs. That decision is one I have stuck with to this very day.
I really don’t know for sure where the desire to become a cop came from, but it ran deep in my veins. When I was asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, it was very natural for me to say, “I am going to be a policeman!” I knew that it would come to pass for what ever reason. There were some outside influences of course. Television shows of good guys were prominent in the ‘50’s and ‘60’s - Robert Crawford in “Highway Patrol”, “The Andy Griffith Show” and “Dragnet” just to name a few. My favorite was about a pilot, “Sky King”, who lived on a ranch. Although he wasn’t a law officer, he was a good guy who helped the sheriff out in most episodes. I wonder how many of the kids I grew up with in Libby remember when Sky King came to town with the Carson Brothers Circus. He made a great impression doing trick shots with a six-shooter.
After the show was over, we all lined up in the center ring to shake his hand and get an 8x10 black-and-white photo of him signed right in front of us.
It was a great day and to celebrate, my sister and mother drove me to the “A&W” drive-in, which is but a memory now, long since torn down to make room for a hotel. I was happy, but something just wasn’t right. I ate my hamburger and some of my fries and swished it down with a swig of chocolate milkshake. A great combo, but there was a smell that just wouldn’t leave my senses. The smell was of the large, smelly elephant that was paraded before us in one of the rings during the show. I couldn’t get it out of my head or nostrils. That great combo wasn’t so great when it ended up on the pavement next to the car. I take a moment now to apologize to the carhops who worked at that A&W that day, including one of my sisters. To A&W, it wasn’t your food, it was the damn elephant. To this day, I retch when I smell one of those stinky things.
The 8x10 photo of Sky King remained close for many years, hanging on the wall of my bedroom. Unfortunately, it disappeared sometime after I left home in 1973 for the service, along with many of the things that helped me develop my imagination when I was young. Today I could buy some of the same items on ebay, or at least items like them, but it just wouldn’t be the same. And just like Libby’s A&W, Sky King is no longer with us.

Randy J. Cole

Our Fog

A young Officer R.J. Cole Coliville Police Department

Our Fog




Ladies and gentlemen, once again we have passed into a new year, when most of us spend time looking at the reflection of our lives. We become more emotional and see things in a different light. We remember family members who have passed and welcome the smiling faces of new children born who will take their place at the holiday tables. It is a time when we as Americans should look at our future and ask questions and seek answers.
There is a fog that has descended upon this country obscuring clear direction and free choices that we as Americans once took for granted.
I recall an incident from my early days, 1982, as a police officer in the city of Colville, Washington, which at the time seemed very humorous. Today I see it as a metaphor of what we are now experiencing in this country.
I would like to start this story by admitting to you that I am not a religious person. I do not attend services in any house of worship other than weddings, including my own, and funerals. I also do not consider myself an atheist because I have had enough amazing experiences in my life to know that we do receive gifts of thanks for doing the right things in life. These gifts just don’t happen; they have to come from somewhere or something that is bigger then us mortals.
The Colville valley in Northeast Washington is one of those undiscovered treasures. Truly beautiful to those who live and visit there. The Colville River flows nearby and within a short distance the Columbia rest in the reservoir known as Lake Roosevelt. In the fall and early winter when the air cools these bodies of water create a very dense fog.
It was a cool early December night and I was the only Colville officer on duty. The fog was so thick that the powerful street lights were but a glow, as if someone had laid a thick blanket over them. It was almost impossible to tell where on Main Street you were, unable to recognize any of the features of the buildings. As I slowly drove my patrol vehicle up the street, something to the right caught my eye. I tried to focus and make sense of what I was seeing. A rather bright light is shining low to the ground and I just barely make out the silhouettes of people some standing some appear to be kneeling. I radioed to the dispatcher that I was going to be making contact with a group of unidentified people at an unidentified location somewhere on the main city street. I left the warmth comfort of my car and using my best officer voice I said, “Colville Police, is everything OK?” I received no reply and the only sound that could now be heard was the sound of the snap on my holster being released and the sound of my heart pounding within my own head. I once again announced my presence in a clear loud voice with no response and no visible movement. I walked within feet of the forms only to be confronted by three wise men and numerous barn animals and in the center, a man named Joseph and his wife Mary. They looked fondly down at the face of there new born son Jesus. The snap of my holster being secured and a sigh of relief were the only sounds to be heard. Although the temperature was cold I felt warmth in knowing that even though shrouded in fog, the nativity scene, the symbol of faith for millions was present. It was impressive and means even more now then ever before. The fog descends on us all, believers and non believers as well as others like me who are somewhere in between. People like me are looked down upon by many who say you must make a decision and commit to a specific church or religion. I openly disagree, with the understanding that I will stand with you and protect the doors of your place of worship from attack by those who disagree with you’re beliefs.
I will stand with those who are willing to knock the chisel from the hands of those who would see the symbols of religions removed from the stones which mark the graves of our beloved veterans. I grieve with the mother of the fallen soldier who chooses protest as a way of stating her feelings. Although I am not in total agreement, she has earned the right. I stand with and support those who are willing to take on and destroy others who will see us all dead in the name of a religion they have perverted and soiled by killing innocent men women and children. What is responsible for the fog that blinds these people? What is responsible for the fog that blinds the leaders of nations and prevents them from making the best possible decisions and choices?
If you are inclined to pray, perhaps I could persuade you to ask for the lifting of the fog that seems to have blinded us all. God bless!


Randy J. Cole