(And I hope the last time I ever post about this stuff.)
One Friday, after my usual eye doctor visit I had another appointment, with my grandson, to attend his birthday party, which had been arranged specifically to mesh with my schedule.
We had a lovely time celebrating this lovely grandson and the hour arrived to let him get to bed, and us home.
It’s a long drive over narrow, hilly, curvy, crumbly, bumpy country roads, from his house to mine. Some of the roads have few markings, due to paint rub-off, due to overuse and under-upkeep. Some of the bridges are only barely wide enough to be two lanes.
Quaint.
Plenty good enough for me. I drive a Ford truck. One of the last of the Rangers. Just a bit jazzed up from the last owner . . .
However, I noticed someone following me almost all the way. It’s harder, yet, to drive at night with lights in your rear-view mirror. This person was not exactly tailgating, but sure was sticking like glue. Sighs.
Also, on these country roads, we often encounter deer, skunks, armadillos, dogs, cats, possums, etc. We always drive with attention to the woods along the road, looking out for the gleam of the eyes of something that wants to hop out before you just as you pass, so you can hit it. With the smaller creatures, it’s mostly too bad, but with skunks and deer, you can really acquire a messed-up vehicle if you hit them.
So I swerved a time or two.
We also sometimes encounter huge trucks, used to help chicken farmers keep their chicken houses cleaner, that we fondly call “Tyson’s Soup Trucks”. I don’t think you can Google that and learn what it is, so just use your imagination, okay? It’s gross. Anyone would rather go one-on-one with a cement truck than with one of those. Okay?
So, we really, really yield the right of way when one of those “soup trucks” is trying its best to maneuver a tight country curve. So I yielded, really yielded, once.
As I neared town, as the road smoothed and straightened and had a more substantial shoulder, I noticed my almost-tailgater friend also had blue lights atop his car. Sighs. I was in no mood for being spot-checked, but so be it–I stopped.
The officer was really handsome, young with a baby face to match, doing his level best to look stern and official. I’d take him for a son, if his mom didn’t want him. He told me I’d been weaving and driving on the shoulder, crossing the center line, etc. Well? I guess he was so busy watching me, he forgot to watch the road. I should have bumped a skunk for his driving pleasure?
Then he began searching inside my cab with his flashlight. Then he wanted to know where I’d been and where I was going. Wow. I am plenty old enough to be his mom. I’m used to asking those things of folks his age.
I’ve been to my grandson’ birthday party and I’m on my way home.
Not convinced.
Okay, before that I had an eye doctor appointment in the really big city, to get a shot in my eyeball.
That got his attention.
And here is the funny part.
You know how the thought of getting a shot in your eyeball makes you shiver, but doesn’t do that for me anymore?
He shivered. Not a little, barely perceptible shiver, but a big shiver, one due the enormity of the thought. His big hand stopped pushing that little pen and he lost his cool for just a moment. And after that, he decided just to give me a warning and then he let me go.
But not before he left his parting remark: “Well that explains your red, weeping eyes.”
Hmm. Driving a jazzed up truck, weaving, red-eyed granny–I’m sure he was disappointed.
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