Words escape event

It’s hard to describe what a crowd of 5,000 people looks like, and even harder to describe what it feels like to be standing only yards away from them as they mourn the loss of a colleague and friend.

Overwhelming is one word that comes to mind. Moving is another.

But I don’t think either word does the experience justice.

Many people delivered eulogies at trooper David Brinkerhoff’s funeral, including state police Acting Superintendent Preston Felton, Brinkerhoff’s brother, and one of his many close friends, state police Investigator David Atkins.

Atkins said April 25 was the day he lost his best friend.

He said his 2-year-old daughter asked her mother what was wrong with Daddy. They told her he had a "boo-boo" on his heart.

"My daughter left my bedroom and came back with a Band-Aid," Atkins said. "My daughter’s actions were a sign telling me it would get better."

I had never seen as many law-enforcement officers in one place as I did Wednesday. Agencies from across North America were there. State University of New York police. Connecticut state police. Canadian officers. New Jersey state police.

There were agencies there from places I didn’t even know existed.

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What surprised me _ but I suppose it shouldn’t have _ was the kindness and compassion of people toward everyone, including the media.

When I asked state police public-relations personnel for a funeral program _ explaining that those of us in print needed to know spellings of names _ I received one, and was offered extras in case I saw anyone else who needed one.

I passed a group from the Elsmere Fire Department that had water and juice on my way back from walking to a reception for the law-enforcement officers who went to the funeral. I asked them how much they were charging for the water; it was a hot day, I knew I had a long walk to go, and I would have gladly paid for water.

The water was free, a woman told me, and it was fine to take one. Not just one, she said, but take as much as I wanted.

Although what led to the funeral was beyond tragic, I saw the depths of human compassion that day.

___

I quite liked North Lawrence.

I was shocked to read last week that Travis D. Trim, the 23-year-old man accused of shooting three troopers, was from the sleepy little village where I lived four years ago.

I had lived in North Lawrence for about three or four months when I worked as a reporter for the Watertown Daily Times in one of the paper’s St. Lawrence County bureaus.

North Lawrence is a small town _ I’m not even sure if it counts as a village _ with about 1,000 people. It’s in the middle of nowhere, even though many media outlets last week referred to it as being between 10 and 20 miles from Canada.

But I liked it.

I liked that it was quiet. I liked that I had off-street parking _ even if that parking was less than half a block from a Kraft plant. I liked that even though it barely had a main street, I could walk downtown to go the post office and a small grocery store, and I felt safe walking around at night.

When I called Ruth Trim, Travis’ grandmother, last week, I told her that I had lived in North Lawrence.

Oh, she said, I knew what it was like. Friends and neighbors, most of whom knew each other and cared for people. She couldn’t understand what had happened to her grandson.

But I wasn’t a stranger, she said. I knew the area.

Yes, Mrs. Trim, I knew what it was like.

___

Staff Writer Amy L. Ashbridge covers health and business.