Speeder Dad Learns an Important Lesson
A P R I L 1 5 , 2 0 0 5
It was one of those amazing spring days that demand a drive in the country. The sun was brilliant, the sky a cloudless blue, the earth’s awakening smell sweet on the air.
“Hop in,” I told the kids. “We’re taking a ride.” A ride to nowhere and for no purpose other than to feel the wind in our faces and to take in the eye-popping beauty of budding maples and blossoming cherry trees.
We found our way to one of those bucolic Bucks County country roads that artists draw. We whizzed past cows and barns and pastures, the sunroof open, the windows down, and Stevie Wonder on the stereo. Bliss.
Then I glanced in my rearview mirror. Bliss be gone.
A police car was tight on my tail, lights flashing, siren wailing. A choice swear word nearly escaped my lips before I remembered the kids and uttered, “Shoot. Golldarnitall!”
With sinking heart, I pulled over, knowing I had been having way too much fun not to have been speeding. But the cop whizzed by me, instead pulling over the pickup truck I had been following. Whew, better him than me, I thought.
My good fortune was short lived. The state trooper, it turned out, was going for a double play. He waved me over behind the pickup. I handed him my driver’s license.
“Mr. Grogan, are you in a hurry today?” he asked.
“Actually, no,” I said.
No Good Excuses
I wanted to tell him about the joyous riot of spring, the blue sky, the budding trees, the awakening earth, and all that. I wanted to extol the wind in my face and the unadulterated pleasure of Stevie Wonder and an open sunroof on a day so perfect—neither too hot nor too cold—it could have been delivered by angels. But I was pretty sure the joie de vivre defense was not going to cut it.
“You were driving 62 in a 40-mph zone,” he told me. And then he delivered the most withering blow of all: “And with children in the car!”
His tone was a cross of contempt and concern, and the words stung. What kind of a father would go speeding around curves with his own flesh-and-blood beside him? The only good news was that the guy in the pickup had been going ever faster—and he had his kid along, too.
The punishment for my lead-footed indiscretion: a $160 fine and three points on my driving record. But that was nothing compared to what awaited me when I glanced at the face of my 8-year-old daughter in the backseat. My son, 12, was more amused than anything by my predicament. But Colleen looked stricken.
I was her dad. And to a second grader, that meant I was her hero, her compass, her rock of stability and righteousness. I was the one who kept her safe, who always told her the police were there to protect her from bad people.
I was the guy who regularly admonished her to obey the rules and do the right thing, even when no one was watching.
And here I was, caught red-handed on the wrong side of the law.
Off the Pedestal
Yes, it was only a speeding ticket, but I could see it on her face, the dawning awareness that her father was less than perfect, was in fact something approaching criminal.
The trooper seemed to see it, too, and in a softer tone said, “We’re just trying to keep everyone safe.”
And then to Colleen: “I’m glad to see you all wearing your seatbelts.”
Her face brightened. See, her dad wasn’t a total bum!
I thanked the officer—why, I’m not quite sure—and drove off with all the zip of a church lady on her way to Sunday services.
I have preached ad nauseam to my kids that actions have consequences, and now I was Exhibit A.
“I learned an important lesson today,” I told them. “The rules are there for a reason, and I broke them, and now I have to pay.”
It’s odd, this family affair. We spend the first half of our lives hiding our imperfections from our parents so as not to disappoint them, and we spend the second half hiding them from our children for the same reason.
On this achingly lovely day, I had no place to hide. My little game was up.
Speeder Dad was guilty as charged.
