Author

Sally Stratso

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A son of Irish immigrants, my father became a patrolman in Cleveland’s Fourth Precinct, the roughest district in Ohio in the late 1940s and 50s.  He sometimes walked a beat, other times he rode in a patrol car.  He was beaten up, stabbed, shot, you name it, but it was his life for 28 years. He loved Clint Eastwood and the “Dirty Harry” movies.  He would have enjoyed “Gran Torino” but he would have tut-tutted about the language.  He never used that kind of language, and was especially intolerant of his daughter using the f-word.  He was a strict disciplinarian.  After my mother passed on, it was just the two of us; I had no siblings, and he had a lot of responsibilities. Every month when he went downtown to pick up his paycheck, he would take me along.  We would always tour the jail to see the inmates (they didn’t particularly appreciate…