Above the Law

    Channel 19 was crackling with complaints about some “little old lady” backing up traffic on 76 west. I wasn’t in a hurry but my lead foot was chafing at the current thirty-five miles an hour at which this mile long string of traffic was traveling. Why people weren’t passing and returning to the newly declared fifty-five limit was beyond me.
    As gaps appeared between vehicles, I weaved my sixty-six Mustang around other vehicles and after three or four miles caught up with the traffic obstruction: a sheriff’s department cruiser.
    I eased around him at forty-five and was immediately treated to blue lights and siren. Knowing there was no reason to pull me over other than I had interrupted an afternoon game of annoy law-abiding citizens, and that there were plenty of people who monitored Channel 19 consistently, I didn’t worry about a ticket. I didn’t think irritation was a valid reason.
    The other drivers in the backed-up traffic were now cruising on their way, probably thanking me for removing the obstruction.
    The deputy approached my car. I had my out-of-state driver’s license and my military I.D. out; that should counterbalance any questions about the mismatched driver’s license and vehicle plates.
    When he got to the driver’s door, the deputy had to bend over at nearly a ninety-degree angle just to look in the window. He was a tall one.
    “Did you know you were doing seventy-five?” were his first words to me.
    “I was not. I had barely gotten to forty-five. Why are you holding up traffic?” I replied.
    I know, not good to argue with the law.
    “Yes you were. I clocked you.” He was fuming, most likely because I had interfered with his hopes of writing some speeding tickets this afternoon. The traffic that had been behind him had disappeared into the gathering dusk.
    “Then let me see the radar reading.” Most of the local law were nice guys who would check my speed if I asked. They monitored Channel 19, so a “How’s my speed?” to one I was meeting got a “Good” or “Little fast. Slow it down.”
    The deputy straightened up and put a hand on top of the car. Guess no one had ever asked for that. Hell! I knew he hadn’t clocked me. He was just pissed that I had had the nerve to pass him, and he knew that about half the people I had talked to on the CB were in the line of traffic that had been behind him. 
    I heard the hard peck of a heavy ring as he smacked the top of the Mustang twice. If he damaged the paint, speeding tickets would be the least of his worries.
    “Where are you going? he asked
    “Home for the night,” I told him.
    “Keep it down,” he said and walked  back to his cruiser.

    I eased off the clutch and resisted the urge to peel out. I drove a sedate fifty on the way home, and was surprised that the deputy was following me. Guess he thought I’d let the horses run if he wasn’t behind me. He was right.
    When I turned onto Raccoon Road, I figured he’d go on but he stayed behind me. Damn! What did he think I was? A dragster? Well . . .
    I parked in front of my rented trailer and got out. The deputy pulled in and parked behind my Mustang and got out of the cruiser. Now what, I wondered.
    He walked up to me, close enough I could read his name tag. Sgt. Williamson. I looked up to his face. Wow! A Gregory Peck look-alike with a thin white scar down his left cheek. I had been so furious when he pulled me over that I hadn’t seen past the uniform-clad lean physique. 
    I took a deep breath and asked, “What did I do this time, Sgt. Williamson? Drive too slow on my way home?”
    He looked down. He hadn’t replaced his hat when he got out of the cruiser and I saw he had dark, thick, wavy hair that made my fingers twitch from wanting to feel the texture.
    He looked back up at me. “I ran your plates. You’ve got a clean record. I know what you’re thinking. Yes, I was wanting to write speeding tickets. I just didn’t expect drivers to back up behind me like that. You had the guts to say something about it and go around me.” He looked down again.
    Well, looks like there’s a first time for everything. A cop admitting to what he was doing. “And . . . ?” I asked him.
    “I can’t say I’m sorry for frightening you, for it’s apparent I didn’t. But I can say I’m sorry for abusing my authority.”
    “Apology accepted,” I told him. Now what? I was attracted to him. Hell! Any female with a pulse would be. I would leave the first move up to him.
    “I’m off shift in an hour. Would you have supper with me?” he asked.
    I looked at Sgt. Williamson. Should I? Why not? I hadn’t had a date since transferring here, just hadn’t seen anyone who interested me. But Sgt. Williamson did. I could give the guy a chance. “Sure. Do you want to meet somewhere?”
    “I’ll pick you up.” With that, he returned to the cruiser, backed out of the driveway and drove back toward town.

    I went inside, changed out of my uniform into jeans and a lightweight sweater as the nights were cooling some with the onset of autumn. I did a little straightening of the living room and kitchen, removed dry lingerie from the shower curtain rod, and decided the floors were clean enough to ignore. By the time I sorted through mail that I hadn’t opened for days, Sgt. Williamson had returned, driving a fairly new Chevy pick-up.
    Once we were on the road, I asked, “What is your first name? I assume you know mine.”
    “Charles,” he told me. “And, yes, I do know your name – Lucille.”
    “So, Charles, where are we going?”
    “There’s a seafood restaurant at the lake. They’ve usually got pretty good fresh seafood. Is that okay with you?”
    “Sounds good to me. I’ve not been to many of the local restaurants yet.”
    The restaurant had a good selection, prepared several ways, so I got grilled flounder, with clam strips on the side. Charles had baked trout on a bed of rice, and a huge salad.
    The food was good and we talked of our childhoods while dining. Both of us were only children and had grown up on farms, he in Nebraska, me in Tennessee. He was easy to talk to, and we laughed at each other’s tales of childhood pranks and disasters.
    Our dinner over, Charles asked if there was anything I’d like to do. I told him since I was expected at work at 0600 the next morning, I should go home. He said he understood that, and we returned to his truck and the drive to my place. 

    On the way we talked of the dinner, and he said he would like to take me out again when both of us had more time. I agreed with that, and when he parked behind my Mustang, he got out of the truck and walked with me to the front door.
    I unlocked the door and turned to tell Charles that I had had a nice evening and to thank him for the meal. I didn’t get to say that, for when I turned, he put an arm around me and pulled me close to him. “Lucille, may I have a kiss before I leave?”
    I put up my hand and traced the scar on his cheek. “I think that would be nice,” I told him.
    Oh, it was. Very nice. And the hug. And the texture of his hair. And . . . And a few hours later, I returned to the bed after getting us Cokes from the refrigerator. 
    He was lying on his back, hands behind his head, legs crossed at the ankles, nothing over him. I set the Cokes on the dresser, got onto the bed, put one knee on one side of his hips and one knee on the other side of his hips. He grinned at me and I leaned down to kiss him. 

    Don’t ever let anyone tell you that you can’t get above the law.

The Restless Kind

    I had paced the kitchen and living room until the cats and the dog had retreated to the safety of the bedroom at the other end of the trailer. They will tolerate only so many stepped-on tails and paws.
    It was raining, back and forth showers that were irritating. Too heavy at times to do anything outside. When that stopped, the yard was soaked, so even with a light sprinkle coming down outdoors was messy.
    I didn’t want to stay inside – it was starting to suffocate me. I had plenty of housework to do but no desire to do it. There wasn’t anything going on in town that I was interested in. Driving wasn’t even appealing at this point – I’d rather drive two hours in a downpour than thirty minutes in intermittent showers.
    Damn! I needed to burn off this restless mood.
    Hell with it all I decided. I pulled on my Dingos, donned my Levi jacket, grabbed essentials such as phone and truck keys, and stepped outside just as the clouds decided to release the heaviest bout of rain there had been all day. Drenched by the time I got in the truck, I was thankful the F150 had heated seats; perchance that would dry my clothes a little.
    As the fan blew warm air around the truck cab, I pulled to the end of the driveway and stopped. I ignored the swishing wipers and surveyed the road in both directions. No traffic, as I expected mid-morning on a wet Thursday.
    Decision time. East or west? East was a shorter drive to something to do. West offered more options. The weather made my decision – the downpour came to an abrupt halt. East – I wouldn’t have to drive as long in back and forth rain.

    An hour later, I’m in a bar, the jukebox loaded with Travis interspersed with Dwight. The ribs are tasty and tender, the clientele is sedate, and that shot of Maker’s is easing my mood.
    I’ve been reading texts on my phone so am surprised when I hear, “May I join you?”
    I look up to see a young man standing by the table. My grandson is probably older.
    “Why would you want to do that?” I ask. My restlessness adds to my normal bluntness.
    “I’m new here and wanted a quiet conversation today,” he replies, evidently not put off by my bluntness, “and you look like you could use some company.”
    I study him. Tall, dark and handsome, and a Sam Elliott voice. Why not?
    “Have a seat,” I tell him.
    Instead of taking a seat across the table from me, he unexpectedly sits beside me. We introduce ourselves. His name is Marcus and he is working on the gas pipeline being run across this county. A few minutes later, after some light conversation, I put his age at least twenty years older than my grandson. Hmmm . . .

    “Where are you from originally?” I ask and am not surprised to learn he is a military brat and never lost the wanderlust that frequent moves can instill. He wanted more flexibility to move from place to place as he chose, so opted for construction work of any kind instead of a military career.
    I tell him I’m nowhere as traveled as he is – I do all my traveling in daydreams. He grins and asks what I am doing for the rest of the day.
    I am not sure how to answer that. Since I hadn’t planned on anything past a good lunch, I tell him, “Killing time.”
    “Sounds like a plan,” he says. “If it wasn’t raining I’d be working. What would you be doing if it wasn’t raining?”
    “Today, I would have been doing yard work. If the rain was more consistent, I’d be driving.”
    “Driving?” he asks, sounding puzzled. “Where to?”
    “Wherever the road goes,” I tell him. I can tell he doesn’t fully understand, so I explain that I am a widow and my husband and I drove around aimlessly on back roads, just seeing what there was to be seen. I do realize that wanderlust may seem aimless, but it tends to cover more miles in a day than Liam and I did.
    “I’m sorry you  lost your husband,” he softly says. He takes a sip of his Coke before speaking again.
    “Would you like to take a drive with me this afternoon?”
    “If I do the driving,” I reply. “We won’t take back roads as I’m not in my ride-around vehicle, but I do know a nice drive with pretty scenery.”
    “Ride-around vehicle?” Marcus asks. I explain the difference in my 2003 Explorer and 2020 F150 when it comes to ‘riding around’. He laughs at that and tells me, “Madam, drive me wherever your heart desires.”

    Perhaps our restless hearts will complement each other.

Excerpts From Sissy's Diary: 1

Ten days to Christmas. Can I wait that long?

There was frost this morning. Some fields looked like it had snowed in the night.

The tree is up, decorated splendidly. Your crystal guitar ornament glitters near the top.

Shelves in some stores are nearly empty. I hope the decorations sold this year are cherished.

All I want for Christmas is a hug from you.

A crackling fire, a bearskin rug, and you beside me – warmth and love.

I found some dried mistletoe today, a sprig I had put on a pantry shelf. I hung it just inside the bedroom door.

A northerly breeze tells me I need a heavier coat this morning.

Will you be home by Christmas? I hope you can get leave and a plane ticket.

Your gift is wrapped and under the tree. I had no idea what to get you so bought the first thing that caught my eye.

Flannel sheets keep me warm at night, but are no substitute for your warmth beside me.

I can smell the smoke from the neighbor’s fireplace this morning. He favors hickory heat.

Christmas. It will be quiet for me this year.

A nativity scene in a store window reminded me that I haven’t set ours out for two years. I did that this weekend.

I am looking forward to spending Christmas with you.

I love you.

Memorable Day

    I walk through the graveyard, stopping many times to put a sprig of flowers on a grave – relatives, friends of my parents, friends of mine, neighbors. I have put sprays on the tombstones of my parents, grandparents, great-grandmother, and aunts and uncles.
    I stop in my walk down memory lane, memories that aren’t mine, but of things told to me through the years. My father and grandfather in the coal mines. My grandmother piecing quilts and crocheting bedspreads. My mother and a friend soaking bread in fermented blackberry juice and feeding it to a neighbor lady’s chickens – yes, the chickens got drunk.
    I look up from my great-great-grandfather’s grave and notice a man a few rows away, kneeling at a black tombstone. He doesn’t appear to be praying so I assume he’s arranging flowers to his satisfaction.
    I walk further down the row of relatives’ graves, making sure I’ve not missed anyone. I have not been the only distant relation to place flowers this weekend; some of the graves have three or four springs – red, white and blue for veterans, and roses or daisies for their women.
    I stop at the end of this row, and look around the graveyard. The man I noticed earlier has moved a couple of rows closer. He looks familiar to me, but I have always thought that after a certain age, a lot of people resemble other people, so don’t try to figure out who he is.
    On my way back to my vehicle, I go past my parents’ grave, and check the placement of the spray on their tombstone, and of the sprays on my grandparents’ and great-grandmother’s tombstones. Satisfied that I have the sprays centered and tight enough to prevent a wind easily blowing them away, I am ready to walk to my vehicle, when I sense there is someone behind me.
    When I turn around, the man is about six feet from me. I smile at him, and he says, “Sharon? Sharon Cravens?”
    “Yes,” I reply, not sure if I should say anything further.
    “I thought it was you. I’ve not seen you for years.” He pauses. “You don’t recognize me?”
    “No, I don’t,” I tell him. “You seem familiar but I don’t recognize you.”
    “Bill. Bill Ferguson. From grade school.”
    “Bill. No, we’ve not seen each other for years. What was it, third grade when you all moved?”
    “Fourth. But I never forgot you.” He smiles and it lights up his rugged face.
    “Really? That’s surprising, since it’s been so long.”
    “You were hard to forget. Always smiling. Always seemed so happy.” He smiles again and extends his hand. “Let me reintroduce myself. I am Bill Ferguson, and would like to make your acquaintance.”
    I take his hand, and the warm, firm handshake arouses something in me that I thought was in permanent hibernation. “I am Sharon Cravens Leatherwood. Pleased to meet you, again.”
    He loosens his grip but keeps hold of my hand. “Leatherwood? Steven? How is he?”
    “Unfortunately, no longer with me the past four years. He would have liked this reunion.”
    “I am so sorry for your loss. I know it’s a hard thing to go through. I lost my wife two years ago.” He looks down at the ground for a moment, then back up at me. “Would you like to have a cup of coffee with me this afternoon?”
    Just this morning, someone asked me when I was getting married again and I had told them never, that Steven could not be replaced. True, Steven cannot be replaced, but perhaps I could explore the possibility of a new love in my life.
    “Yes, Bill. That sounds very nice.”