There’s an interesting story on how I learned about the reckless driving law in South Carolina, and, no, it doesn’t start with me in jail. It actually starts in the 1950s, in rural Aiken County. It starts with my daddy.
My grandpa was a bootlegger. A fact that he kept hidden from my father for a while, until my young daddy happened upon a still one day while playing in the woods. Now, coming up on a still was a good way to get shot and finding this apparatus sent my dad, I think he was maybe eight or nine, running home in a panic. All out of breath, he told his sister what he found and how he feared for his life.
Aunt Shirley assured him that it was unlikely a daddy would shoot his own son for finding his still.
A few years down the road, my grandpa signed my daddy up for driver’s education, bootleg style. My daddy learned to drive running ‘shine from Aiken to Columbia. Now, for anyone who has been to the Palmetto State via I-20, knows that from Aiken to Columbia on that flat stretch of paved road is about 60 miles, roughly an hour’s drive.
My daddy did it on back dirt roads in 33 minutes.
Now this story did not pass between my years during my college years when I made the trip in the opposite direction. I spent the weekend with my bestie, who had enough sense to go to a civilian college, even if it was USC. Guess that’s still better than Clemson.
Anyway, I was driving my Firebird home on this spring day, windows down, music blaring. Memories of life without bugles singing me to sleep and waking me floating through my mind. Not another car in sight, until I saw blue lights. One glance down told me I was in trouble. I slowed, eased off the road and waited.
“Do you know how fast you were going?”
“No, sir. But I’m sure it was fast.”
“I clocked you doing 89 in a 55.”
Oh, this was not good. I didn’t try to argue or whine, or even flirt my way out of this one. He asked my where I was going. Home. He asked me why I was going so fast. I wasn’t paying attention.
“Anything over 20, I’m supposed to take you to jail.”
My eyes widened. My daddy had one rule that I seen him enforce one time and that was all it took. His rule was: If you get arrested, don’t call him. I thought my heart was going to either beat its way out of my chest or stop right there. Who in the world would bail me out?
“But I don’t feel like driving an hour to the closest jail.”
I probably could have kissed him. Saving grace never tasted so sweet. He wrote my ticket for 19 miles over the speed limit and I slowly made my way home.
Now my mama is a sharp whip, she knew as soon as I walked in the door I had a speeding ticket and she swore she was not paying for it and I would have to tell my daddy when he came in. The little hamster in my head that gives me brilliant ideas began to work its magic. I stayed quiet the rest of the day, contrite, repentant of my evil ways. Daddy came home and as we sat watching television, I took a deep breath.
“Daddy, remember when you told me you made from Aiken to Columbia in 33 mintues?”
“You tried, didn’t you?”
“And I woulda done it if that cop hadn’t pulled me over!”
I guess just as daddy’s don’t shoot their sons for finding their stash, they don’t punish their little girls for driving like them.
Post a Comment