DOINK DOINK
A few months ago, my 17-year-old son got in his car with his
best buddy and set out on an adventure out of town. They got in trouble with
the law and stayed out past bedtime on a school night. We were livid, so we put
our foot down.
We told him that the next time he drives his 79-year-old
GrandDad to a pig auction, he should follow the speed limit—and that they may
have to leave before the auction is over to get home on time. Yeah, this is the
kind of wholesome trouble that my farm kids get themselves into.
So our son got his first speeding ticket WAAAAY out of town
and since he is a minor you can’t just pay the ticket. No, you must appear in
juvenile court. With your parent.
Fortunately, after waiting for weeks to determine his fate,
the court date was transferred to our county. We were getting our day in court.
Because we are but simple country folk and also possibly
because I greatly overreacted, we over-did the whole court thing.
Even though I have worked right outside the big city for
years during my career, I was still gravely concerned that there would be nowhere
to park. So we arrived more than an hour early.
The very kindly man working security at the then-vacant
juvenile court building was VERY surprised to see us so early, which was
evident by the way he whipped his head around to look at the clock when we
walked in.
But thank goodness for his help. There were no signs, no
instructions on what to do when you got there. Somehow you were supposed to
know that you had to go downstairs to a little window marked Traffic to check
in but then back upstairs to wait for court.
As other people started arriving, it was also clear that we
were overdressed. I had made our son wear his homecoming dance outfit and his
father even had to dust off his pair of khakis.
The OFFICIAL COURT LETTER we had received said no phones. So
we sat there. For more than an hour. With no phones. Watching everyone else look
at their phones. In our Sunday best. The only thing we forgot was a picnic basket
containing a glass jar of hard boiled eggs.
Court itself was fascinating. We all went into the court at once
and they called up the kids and parents alphabetically. So we all got to hear
their traffic crimes and what the magistrate had to say. Husband enjoyed this
part so much, he was really disappointed when we got called up, Ryan plead
guilty, the magistrate assigned our fees and they sent us back downstairs to
pay.
I may not have mentioned but this whole court thing happened
in the evening—to keep kids from missing school. So we were hungry for dinner by
the time this whole thing was over. And since I had NOT packed a picnic basket
like a good country woman, we decided to go out to eat.
So that’s the story of how we ended up taking our delinquent
son to Spaghetti Warehouse to celebrate his traffic delinquency.
Sorry to mix my TV metaphors, but I gotta end with the
timeless words of the Balladeer:
Just a good old boy. Never meaning no harm. Someday the
mountain might get em, but the law will-probably-catch-you-speeding-on-the-way-to-a-pig-auction.
YEE-HAW!
