Chapter 7 – Great Cop and Corn Cob Caper

In the small bars that still line the main street, whispers, gasps, quiet laughter, heads shake and nod when the subject of the “Great Cop and Corn Cob Caper” arises.

I am sure the statute of limitations has run out so I feel free now to speak of the events of that memorable evening.

In the small farming towns when the winds and snows of winter send frigid echoes of the season through the sparsely populated blocks of downtown, most inhabitants are curled up next to stoves at home or around pool and card tables or leaning against bars in the local taverns—all nine of them.   One might think nine taverns isn’t anything to give pause until you consider the entire land area of 1.15 miles and a population of a little over one thousand people. A bar for every one hundred eleven people.

There was Ingebretson’s, Christensen’s, Fedrickson’s, Gilbertson’s, Gilbertsen’s, Simonsen’s, and Knuteson’s, Ellefson’s, Pederson’s and finally Big Smalley’s. Big Smalley’s was where the bikers and pot smokers hung out. The Smalley family was always considered a bit different. They’d live in town for twenty years but in the tradition of small towns across America, folks are still newcomers until the third generation starts visiting the bars and putting their own money in the tray on Sundays. They were nice folks but just a bit different. You know, English – not Norwegian. When we got old enough to go to the bars our parents always told us to stay out of Big Smalley’s. And of course, we did. Usually.

There are several advantages in growing up in a small community. One of those advantages, especially for mischievous fun lovers is the size of the police force. It is very small. We didn’t even have a twenty-four-hour police force until I was in high school. I guess when they realized our classes were getting our driver's licenses the town elders decided they better have a cop on duty all the time.  Our reputation for being a bit raucous preceded us. “We” were the Seniors, Juniors, and Sophomores of high school that year. For some reason, these three classes were larger than those seen before our ascendancy to the hallowed halls of high school. Half of us were related and almost all of us had started kindergarten and grown up together. We were never deviant or cruel, just at bit more rambunctious than those who preceded us.

In the winter time, without fail, the on-duty patrol man would park the squad car on a specific corner of a specific block on the main street, then proceed to walk their beat checking merchants’ doors and peering through windows to ensure all was secure.  On the coldest nights, the officer would often leave the motor of the squad car running to keep the squad warm, and everyone once in a while the doors on the squad would remain unlocked.  On one particular chilly winter evening when the constable on duty happened to leave the said door unlocked, the police squad car, upon the officer’s return… Well… It was gone. No one drove off with the car, stealing the catalytic converter, or hub caps and such. We weren’t criminals, rather it had just been moved around the corner and parked on another block. This stunt was performed more than once and was always a good laugh for everyone, and a good joke, although a bit embarrassing for the duty officer.

But that year, before the hounds of winter howled, the citizens of Patience were enjoying an unusually warm, comfortable fall Saturday evening. It was on that fated evening when what would come to be known throughout the local hills, valleys, and surrounding communities, would survive the years as truly one of the most cunning, beguiling, even wily capers to ever take place in our usually tranquil, placid community and would go down and claim it’s place in Patience Valley lore. Few tricks, pranks, knavery, or practical jokes have stood the test of time as has “The Great Cop and Corn Cob Caper”.

The bars were rather sparse of the younger crowd that evening because a beer party at one of the local quarries had drawn them away. Mother Nature had gifted the younger set a wonderful weather, weekend, and those of us who were extracting the last bit of childish diversion, leaving our youth behind and gate-crashing adulthood were honoring her for this gift.

The hills around Patience Valley were filled with shale rock which had been surface mined, leaving large flat rock parking lots with terraced formations to climb and frolic surrounded by heavily wooded lands that lead to plush hay, wheat, or corn fields.  On this night, however, the local police department had conspired with the county sheriff’s office to break up this festival, this celebration, this reveling in our lives and word was out they were going to make arrests. And that was an uncouth and vulgar display of authority. The festivities had just reached a peak when someone who was perched up in a high tree, as a lookout gave out a yell “Cops are coming, cops are coming. Whoop, whoop.” Bottles and cans were tossed and car doors slammed, engines revved as an incredibly well-coordinated exit proceeded.

Unfortunately, there was just one exit off the hill. As it happened there were two county patrol cars, one city squad, and two unmarked cars. The city only owned one working squad car so the “unmarked” cars were the private vehicles of the Chief of Police and another officer. Yes, we had 4 officers to make up our police department. We were going big time in the crime-fighting arena. Oddly, instead of just parking across the exit to the quarry, the shield welding brain trust had decided to park along the narrow-shouldered, black-top county road that adjoined the crush rock quarry road, and then each would pick out a fleeing car to pursue.  The Patience Valley rock quarry, beer party dragnet was in full effect.

The two county patrols had quickly pulled over their escapees from justice and the city squad, closely followed by the two private vehicles each private vehicle had been fitted with a red flashing light which sat on the dash of each car. The lights were connected to the cigarette lighter for power and although it did provide for a flashing light that could be seen for quite some distance down the road, it also created a reflection off the inside of the windshields of the vehicles making it very distracting and difficult to see outside the car. I happened to be riding with my friend “Jello” and two other quarry escapees in his dad's Chevy Trail Blazer, and we were just in front of “Boomer” and a couple of couples sitting on each other’s laps packed inside his beat-up old Ford F-150. Jello said in a rather collected low voice,

“We can’t outrun them… Boomer don’t climb up my ass too close… But... His voice raised causing me some concern. “We can do this… Hang on… Whoo-hoo. Here we go!”

 And there we went. Jello tapped his breaks so Boomer would slow down, and then he slammed on the breaks making a sharp right, down the ten to fifteen feet embankment into the ten to fifteen feet corn stalks corn field… Boomer was right behind us and soon was a few rows of corn over and if on cue they both stopped and turned off the lights to their vehicles. a fleeting few moments it was quiet. We could hear the wind whispering through the corn leaves. The peacefulness was soon interrupted by three cars with flashing lights, parking along the county road that we had just exited.

“Okay come on up here guys.” We heard chief Bill holler out. We were quiet, crouching in the corn field our breath measured the mix of excitement and fear. From the road we heard a trunk close and soon there was a spot light shining down into the field. Now on a megaphone Chief Bill once again requested our presence on the road. “Come on guys, you're gonna get in trouble…” Then silence for what seemed minutes.

Breaking the silence, I hear next to me the ripping of an almost fully grown cob of corn from the stalk… I could see Jello’s outline as he pulled a couple more cobs of corn off nearby stalks…. I started giggling, proof I had been at the beer party too long anyway. I too snatched a couple of corn stalks and looted them of their spoils… We whispered to Boomer and his cohorts. “Grab some corn cobs.” Chief Bill, this time with a bit more urgency and frustration, now with spotlight locating the tops of our vehicles. “Let’s go. It’s getting late. Come on. I know who it is.”

Just as he finished admonishing us Jello stood up and slung a corn cob at the squad car. I don’t know if there is a word to describe a corn cob hitting a car but it was somewhere between a doink and a clunk. Soon corn cobs were soaring out of the dark, dank corn field, like missiles soaring through the blackness. Blackness now as the chief and his police department had escaped the wrath of the corn cob collaboration, and retreated to their vehicles…

Chief Bill, one more time on the loudspeaker. “I know your vehicles. And I’m gonna talk to your dads.” With that the entire Patience Valley police force called off the pursuit and negotiations, engines roared, tires squawked as they turned onto the county road back to town. Hoping and praying the incident would never leave that cornfield.

We all got back into our respective Trailblazer and F-150 and drove to the end of the field where we found our way back onto the blacktop road… We drove quietly for a few miles, popping open some cans of cheap beer. Pretty soon someone started to laugh.“

Oh my God. Did that just happen?” Yes. Yes, it did happen and from that night on was known as “The Great Cop and Corn Cob Caper”.