For the last few years of his life, my brother J. C. and I took summer vacations alone. We split the cost of rental cars equally, and we alternated paying for lodging. We each paid for our own meals.
J. C. was the last surviving son from my father’s first marriage, and I was the only son of Dad’s second marriage. Though there were several years’ difference in our ages,
J. C. said I was a good traveling companion, in great part because, like I would have a Greyhound bus, I “left the driving to [him].”
J. C. loved to drive. He loved to get up early in the morning. I didn’t, so J. C. would get up and get ready first, letting me sleep in a few minutes. Even so, we were almost always on our daily journey not long after sunup.
We always started with breakfast. Then we got into the car and hit the road. There was not always a particular destination in mind for either of us, just a general direction, say, West.
On one of our journeys J. C. drove until he literally was about to drive us into the median or ditch. He had to, reluctantly, turn over the wheel to me. This brother of mine, who often approached one hundred miles per hour on rural Western highways (and never got caught), provided a word of caution, “Watch your speed on these city highways. Cops in places like that just love to set up speed traps for out-of-towners.”
I probably hadn’t been driving fifteen minutes when, sure enough, there were the blue lights from a local policeman in Elida, New Mexico. He pulled me over, came to the window, and asked for my license and insurance.
If you do a Google search, you’ll discover that Elida, New Mexico is a town in Roosevelt County. The population in 2021 was 197, but decreased to 154 in 2024. According to Trip Advisor, the town is known for its tight-knit community and rural character.
While the policeman was “running my license”, J. C. told me, “I’m gonna talk that SOB [J. C. didn’t abbreviate] out of giving you a ticket.”
When the policeman came back to the car, my brother started chatting with him, “Hey, we’re from Tennessee. Ever been there?”
The policeman, a friendly enough fellow, chatted with J. C. “No, can’t say I have.”
J. C. said, “We’ve got lots of hills out there. We’ve got such steep hills you can’t hardly get a car to go fifty-five miles an hour.”
“That so?”
“You need to come to Tennessee sometime. If you do, go to Pigeon Forge. Dollywood’s there. Ever heard of it?”
J. C. proceeded to fill in the policeman on the wonders of Dolly Parton’s stardom and the theme park which bore her name. All the time the policeman was writing Brother Ronnie a ticket.
The policeman gave me the ticket and pointed out the instructions for paying it. Somehow, per J. C. (I’m sure), a question arose as to how to appeal the ticket. The policeman provided information on how the local judge could be reached and a court date via phone be scheduled. He ended with, “You gentlemen have a nice day, and drive slowly through our town.”
J. C. thanked the cop, then, thankfully, when he was out of the range of hearing, called him a most foul name [I won’t even attempt to abbreviate it for you Dear, Gentle Readers]. I’m sure this would have caused both of us to be incarcerated in the nearest jail for a respectable time. Just use your imagination.
On the appointed day of my “trial by phone”, I called the judge and pleaded my case on speaker. I could tell J. C. didn’t think I had what it took to win against the legal system, and he was basically right. Though I managed to convince the judge of enough purity of my intentions to get the fine lowered a few dollars, I still paid more than the equivalent of a night’s lodging in a not-so-cheap hotel.
Judging from an email I once received, I did fare better than others in their interactions with the law. Consider the following actual comments made by South Carolina Troopers that were taken off their car videos:

“Relax, the handcuffs are tight because they’re new. They’ll stretch after you wear them a while.”

“If you take your hands off the car, I’ll make your birth certificate a worthless document.”

“If you run, you’ll only go to jail tired.”

“Can you run faster than 1200 feet per second? Because that’s the speed of the bullet that’ll be chasing you.”

“You don’t know how fast you were going? I guess that means I can write anything I want to on the ticket, huh?”

“Yes, sir, you can talk to the shift supervisor, but I don’t think it will help. Oh, did I mention that I am the shift supervisor?”

“No, sir, we don’t have quotas anymore. We used to, but now we’re allowed to write as many tickets as we want.”

“I’m glad to hear that the Chief of Police is a personal friend of yours. So you know someone who can post your bail.”

“You didn’t think we give pretty women tickets? You’re right, we don’t. Sign here.”

ANSWER TO QUESTION OF THE WEEK # 71
Where do bad rainbows go? (ANSWER: To prism. It’s a light sentence, but it gives them time to reflect.)

QUESTION OF THE WEEK # 72
Why should you never confide with vacuum cleaners? (See next week’s article in historicunioncounty.com for the answer.)

EMAIL THOUGHTS

I believe if you hate police officers, the next time you are in trouble, call a crack-head.
--Louisiana State Senator John Kennedy

Here’s a free tip, cops will leave you alone if you don't do stupid things.
--Louisiana State Senator John Kennedy

ASK A TEEN—Where’s the first place you would want to go after getting your driver’s license? (Hopefully not traffic court!)