My most recent road trip adventure started about 20 minutes after we hit the road on our northward trek to Michigan.
My friend Vickie and I headed out on a gloriously perfect summer day. Husbands and kid would follow the next day. We had a glorious 24 hours all to ourselves and an overnight stop planned at Kentucky’s Shaker Village.
The morning sun was warm, not hot. The humidity was low, and billowy clouds frolicked in the azure blue sky. We had a South Carolina back road all to ourselves. Vickie and I were chatting and laughing as two girlfriends do when they’re on the road without husbands, kids or pets.
MORE: Road Trips Can Be Magical Experiences
We were planning which brunch restaurants to visit in Detroit when a white SUV appeared over the horizon.
I noticed as the SUV passed that it was a county sheriff’s department car, and, as one does when one passes a police car on a long stretch of country road where one hasn’t been watching her speed, I glanced down at the speedometer. Yep. I was speeding. About that time, I saw speed zone signs ahead. We were just outside a small township, so I slowed down to the proscribed 45 mph.
Meanwhile, I glanced in the rear view mirror just in time to see the sheriff’s car pull off the road and do a U-turn. He stayed back a distance, and he hadn’t turned his lights on, so I thought maybe he just needed to head back to the county seat for something, but no. Soon, the blue lights came on. What a way to start a vacation!
[adrotate banner=”54″]
I signaled and pulled over into a layby and waited for the deputy to pull in behind me. There was the inevitable delay while he ran my tags, so I reached for my wallet to pull out my driver’s license and insurance card.
Both deputies, a man and a woman, got out of the car, but only the man came up to just behind my window. I’ve covered enough police stories to know they do that to make it too awkward for the driver to pull a gun on them—as if I’d even know what to do with a gun if I had one. Honestly, I really am just a mild-mannered, grandmotherly type. Just like Sylvia Cooper. I promise, really I am.
Anyway, the deputy, a tall, bearded fellow with his own big gun hanging from his bulletproof vest asked me if I knew why he’d pulled me over. Well, yes, I knew, and I admitted as much and added that I just hadn’t been paying attention. That’s when he told me I’d been going a speed I’m not going to disclose. Let’s just say, it was faster than I should have been going. A lot faster. A whole lot faster. I was astounded and told him so. I also apologized again for my lack of attention.
The deputy assured me everybody makes mistakes, but he still asked for my driver’s license and registration. Now, I’d just gotten my 2021 tag the previous week (long story, but suffice it to say husbandly negligence was involved), and I knew exactly where the registration form was: in the mailbox we keep on a shelf in the kitchen for incoming paperwork. I told the deputy where the registration was and why it was there, and he asked me if I knew that South Carolina requires registration paperwork to be in the car. I groaned and just about sank through the floor. I could just see the fines going up and up.
When the deputy came back after checking out my documents, he handed me what I assumed was a ticket. I glanced down at it and saw it was a warning just as he started explaining that was only giving me a warning because everyone makes mistakes. For a minute, I wasn’t quite clear on what he was saying, and I asked him what I was supposed to do with the piece of paper.
“Nothing,” he replied.
So, I thanked him and mentioned something about my studies that involved the history of law enforcement in South Carolina. That caught his attention. His head snapped up, and he kind of looked at me for a minute and then asked, “Are you a history buff?”
I replied, “Well, yes, you could say that. I’m a journalism historian.”
Vickie quickly added, “And she’s married to a historian.”
[adrotate banner=”19″]
That’s when he asked me where we were going, and I just blabbered something about Michigan and spending that night in Kentucky–I was nervous, so I don’t really know exactly what I said, but it was enough for him to pull out his business card and hand it to me.
“Give me a call when you get back,” he said. “I’ll give you directions to some of the historic cemeteries in the county.”
He struck one of my big weaknesses. I love touring historic cemeteries, so then I started blabbering about having spent a lot of time touring Texas cemeteries with a friend while my husband was away on research trips while he was a student at Texas A&M.
MORE: North Georgia Mountains Provide Peaceful Getaway
“You just made my day,” I told him.
“Well, then, this must be your best road stop ever,” he said.
“It is,” I assured him. “It is the best road stop ever!”
As our conversation concluded, he warned me to be careful, told me that I’d be coming up on road construction in a few miles, and encouraged me to slow down.
No problem there. I promised I would, and I did. All the way to Kentucky.
Debbie Reddin van Tuyll is a writer for The Augusta Press. Reach her at debbie@theaugustapress.com.
[adrotate banner=”45″]
