At a Snail’s Pace

As I have mentioned, a couple of years back, Momma and I visited the place she had been born, so many decades ago. Although things have changed, things are still the same.  It seems the people born there all have an elephant brain. They remembers the most minute details of days gone by.  This is just one of the stories I felt should be told.

It was the late, great 60’s.  Life was about wearing the shortest mini skirts, plaid bell bottoms, tie die T-shirts,  and making ♥, not war.

In the days of flower power and Woodstock, Mr. Slow-Poke, a short, quiet, gray-haired, confirmed bachelor, drove his vintage automobile at a snail’s pace.

You could see him coming, a parade of frustrated motorists behind him.  Since it was a single lane, double lined highway in most sections, no one could pass him, because of curves, bends and hills in the roads that would hide the fast approaching traffic. As Mr. Slow-Poke drew closer, you could observe the white clenched hands on the steering wheel, the top of his head barely showing over the back of the car seat, staring straight ahead as he drove from his home to the high school, or back, to pick up his spinster sister, the Teacher from H-_-L-L. Not that she encouraged him to pick her up. His driving habits embarrassed her.  However, she was very caustic and demanding and didn’t mind using his services when it suited her schedule.  Poor Mr. Slow-Poke, having the Teacher from H-_- L-L for a sister.

And let’s be truthful, a lot of the students, talked and laughed at him, behind his back, knowing they would never have that problem when they got behind the wheel of a car.  They just were not farsighted enough to see that derision of some sort would find them, and they too could expect some form of ridicule to be heaped upon them, in their lifetime.

However, long before the Neighborhood Watch was in place, some busy bodies, with time on their hands and malice in their heart, would be staring out the window, see Mr. Slow-Poke on the road, in his car, a long line of cars following him and call the police.

Since the police rarely ticketed the speeders, they had plenty of time to devote to this slow-moving hazard, holding up traffic.  The two officers on duty grabbed their hats and rushed out of their office, to their black and white police car, shot guns securely fastened to the dash boards.

The police would take Route 1012 and quickly meet up with Mr. Slow-Poke and signal him to pull over.  The first order of business was to get the cars trapped behind him, (like they were in a funeral procession), on their way.

After directing the traffic to move on, the police would cross the road to once again patiently ask Mr. Slow-Poke if he knew why he had been pulled over.  Did he understand that it was a safety hazard as well as against the law to drive 20 miles an hour on the highway, through the main thoroughfare?  Mr. Slow-Poke always looked earnest and perplexed.  Not too many years back he had clomped along the same road by  horse and buggy. Though he said nothing, he worried if he drove over 20 miles an hour, he might lose control of his car and have an accident, fatal to himself or even worse,  others.  Could no one understand that?  What did they expect him to do?

The police would give him a ticket, good-naturedly tell him to pick up the pace and send him on his way.

Of course there were many observers and a sharp difference of opinion whether Mr. Slow-Poke, a law-abiding soul who never hurt a fly, should be so humiliated on a regular basis.  Some people even had a theory on why the police targeted him.  It was because they could never catch the speeders.  And they had ticket targets to be met if they wanted a pay increase next year. Unfortunately for Mr. Slow-Poke, at the rate he drove, the police could overtake him so he bore the brunt, bank rolling town coffers with the payment of endless tickets (he was totally law-abiding – except for of course, driving below the speed limit).

If there is a moral to this story, it might be that it reinforced that there are always meddlesome tattle tales who will stir it up, even in Shangri–La. No one is exempt from Bad Karma.  The Police must enforce the laws of the land, whether they agree or not.

Although Mr. Slow-Poke paid the tickets, he refused to change his driving habits till the day he died.  It was called Job Security for the police.  As long as there was a Mr. Slow-Poke, the police had a job to do. And the town coffers swelled accordingly.

Now, I am just a Jakita doggie but from what I noticed when I was last there, the highway now has been engineered to account for its environment, weather conditions and cars going faster than the speed of sound.  Still the world needs more Mr. Slow Pokes. It gives the community at large a chance to see the spec in another’s eye, even if they are blinded by the log in their own.

That is how the Two Legged roll… the way I humbly see it!