Peter Colt Police Officer  |  Veteran  |  Author

I have been writing books for a few years now. Short stories too. I have even been known to write some bad poetry on occasion. Don’t worry about the last one, you’ll never see it. I wouldn’t inflict that type of misery on anyone I didn’t actually love. No matter what I am writing or how much, I need a soundtrack.

In the days of CD’s, it was pick one thing and stick with it. Radio was good, only if the station was good. I listened to the local indie college station a lot or jazz on Public Radio but that could be hit or miss. Now we live in an age of MP3 and streaming and access to a breathtaking catalogue of music. I make playlists. For instance, my “Andy Roark” playlist has almost 600 songs.

In my single days I would type away late at night, drinking whiskey and puffing on a pipe. Now I am too old to stay up late and when my girlfriend (now my long-suffering wife) moved in, smoking inside was banned. Doubly so when we had children. My entreaties that I had been raised in a smoke filled home and they’d be fine fell on deaf ears.

Writing is a process, and my process requires a soundtrack. It is often accompanied by a glass of Powers Irish Whiskey.  Don’t judge my process. Go out and develop your own.  For me it’s music and a glass of what many of colleagues refer to as “Mother’s Milk”. I am not saying they’re of Irish decent…but they are.

The process is the process, and it is even more important if I have writer’s block or have to write something that I am not looking forward to writing. Every book has a passage that the Author mildly dreads writing. The Process, the soundtrack, and frankly the whiskey all help. Someday I might convert the shed into an office, what we refer to as the “shoffice” and I can reintroduce tobacco into the mix.

Tonight is one of those nights when the process is getting me through the difficult bit that I don’t want to write. I have a glass of Powers that is being steadily reduced. I’d give my left pinky toe to be able to smoke at my desk tonight. The surprisingly good speakers on my laptop and pumping out tonight’s soundtrack. It’s not Andy’s playlist and it’s not a mix at all. It’s the Pogues.

My friend Chris was a fan of the Pogues and I always associate their music with him. Especially Fairytale of New York and Fiesta. Chris was the type who would refer to good (and sometimes bad) Irish Whiskey as mother’s milk.

We met in college, in Army ROTC in the early 1990’s. He left to enlist on Active duty and our paths wouldn’t cross again until we met in the Chow Hall at Camp Monteith in Kosovo in 2000. Then again, a couple of times and what was then Fort Bragg (Now Fort Liberty, like they couldn’t find a Medal of Honor winner that both SF and the 82^nd could agree on to name the place after?). Then almost ten years later I found out he was a cop in another municipality and that he had almost joined my department.

It was great to renew our friendship. Occasional drinks, a memorable canoe/camping trip and a lot messaging back and forth about history, geo-politics, SF history and watches. Chris was a towering intellect with a memory that would put most mainframe computers to shame. He was also the best person to ask historical questions about Army Special Forces.

A Paratrooper, an avid parachutist and a very experienced one, Chris, jumped recreationally. He jumped as often as he could. The weekend after I turned down a rare chance to get together for a drink Chris exited the aircraft for the last time. I don’t have a lot of regrets in life, but I regret not getting that drink with him.

Tonight, I am having a glass of mother’s milk. Thinking of a good friend as probably are his family, friends and the many, many people Chris touched. From Cops to Paratroopers from around the world to this Cop and “dirty leg” (If you know, you know). Tonight, the process is what gets these words down on the blank page. So tonight’s soundtrack is The Pogues and I am having a taste of the mother’s milk and missing my friend as I know scores of others are too.

 

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in Pace old friend.