Smells

It's funny sometimes to have a memory triggered by a smell.  Today I reached into the passenger seat of my patrol car to throw some bags in, and was hit hard by a smell from my childhood.  It was the smell of my dad's patrol car.  I couldn't describe it, and I didn't even really remember it, but the instant I leaned in my car I was transported back to my childhood.  It must be some mix of worn out brakes, firearms, leather gear, dirt, adrenaline and whatever else lingers around a police car.

I rode in my dad's car every single chance I could.  I went to work with him on almost every single school holiday, several times a summer, and whenever I could badger my way in.  I sat through community meetings, I hung out with dispatchers, I was babysat by the precinct staff, I went on calls and traffic stops.

As an adult now I find it crazy; how did he get away with always having a kid in tow?  Was it a precinct joke?  There goes the Captain, Major and then Chief with one of his kids in tow again.  Maybe nobody questions the boss?

I remember his goal of introducing me to every strong female officer in his agency, women who to this day still mentor me.

But mostly I remember the smell of that car, driving all over the place, and my dad and I talking nonstop during our time together.  Of all the lessons I try to carry over to my own children, it's that my parents always talked and listened to us.  And that feeling, of being respected and loved and listened to, is where I went today when I was transported back to my dad's patrol car.