Warning Ticket Prayer

“Ma’am, when was the last time you got a ticket?”

The rubber met the road in that moment because the truth is simple; I’ve gotten too many warning tickets to count lately. But how could I explain that to the nice motorcycle cop in the sunglasses and the helmet standing at my window?

Desperately searching for a technicality, I thought, “Do warning tickets even count?”

I hate technicalities. Whenever I find myself depending on technicalities instead of the truth, I know I’ve missed the point; the rock solid ground of integrity based on truth. Technicalities are simply the tricky mind’s way of avoiding the truth. Yuck.

“If I tell you the truth, you will think I’m trying to manipulate you,” I said.

“Try me.” His face was stern, but there was a smile in his voice.

“Every time, I see the lights flashing in the rear view mirror I thank God. I think that is why I get warnings.”

Not a normal response I know, but there’s more to the story.

You see, on a particularly frantic afternoon in the Fall about four year’s ago, as we sped to pick up the beloved family pet which I had forgotten to retrieve from the vet’s office, I was pulled over on one of the country roads near my house by a very polite and professional DPS officer.

I knew in an instant I would get a warning that day because sitting next to me was the same person who remembered the dog. He was dressed for dinner with his grandparents in what was his favorite outfit; a starched shirt, khakis, a big lone star belt buckle and a cowboy hat which was a special gift from a DPS friend. Law-enforcement guys have been my son’s heroes since he was eye-level with their holsters.

When my son pulled off his cowboy hat, even though he had been instructed to be perfectly quiet, and showed the officer the lone star in the lining of the hat which is unique to the DPS, I knew I would be ticket-free.

But that’s only the beginning of the story because within a few weeks, we saw that same officer’s picture on the front page of area papers when he was wounded in the line of duty.

Since then my flashing light prayer goes like this, “Thank You Lord that for the next twenty or so minutes this officer will be safe and treated respectfully. Thank You for his devotion to duty and for letting us live in a country with peace and laws, not technicalities. Thank you for the wife or mother who is praying for him today with me. Please continue to protect him.”

I’m not saying this prayer will keep you from getting real tickets.

I’m just saying that for at least fifteen minutes you could be somebody’s answer to prayer.

Cathy Primer Krafve, aka Checklist Charlie, lives and writes with a Texas twang. Comments are invited at http://checklistcharlie.blogspot.com.

Ribbon Solutions

I have a simple solution to life’s stress.

Buy more ribbon.

I don’t know when my ribbon fetish began. Probably during childhood adventures with my grandmother, scouring second-hand stores and discount fabric stores for other people’s cast offs of useful items like zippers, buttons, and thread. The pay-off for restless granddaughters was a yard of any ribbon we chose, a real luxury in those days and an inspired bribe on Meme’s part, since choosing only one yard from so many colorful, temptations was certainly excruciatingly time consuming for young intellects.

I was reminded of our human tendency to prepare for life in odd ways recently when I uncovered the stash of ribbon I had collected in the months preceding my daughter’s wedding almost two years ago.

Like a squirrel hoards nuts, I had gathered spools of silky satin and shiny iridescent ribbon and hidden them away in an unmarked box just in case.

How having ribbon would prepare anyone for the transition of having your children grow up and begin families of their own is a quagmire of human illogic and dysfunction that only a professional psychologist could unravel.

All I know is, “You never know when the perfect ribbon will come in handy.”

Which reminds me of another motto, “Whoever has the most fabric when they die, wins.”

I have known women who built shelf-lined closets specifically to organize their addiction to fabric, justifying it with the words, “But I love to quilt.” And perhaps because they wanted to avoid trips to marriage counseling, their husbands seemed well-adjusted to this concept.

Or maybe those same husbands have a closet devoted to golf.

Like so many mid-lifers, I’m trading stuff for space these days; getting rid of the stuff and gaining room in my closets.

So, what to do with all this ribbon?

Well, the obvious thing, of course. Pass it along, with the fetish, to my oldest daughter, the artist.

And what she doesn’t want can be used to wrap up Christmas at our house this year.

I just hope my family and friends don’t become suspicious when the ribbon on their Christmas packages looks more wedding-ish than holiday-ish.

And I hope your holidays are wrapped and decorated with sweet family memories.

Cathy Primer Krafve, aka Checklist Charlie, lives and writes with a Texas twang. Comments are invited at http://checklistcharlie.blogspot.com.