Mom was in a hurry to get home. Potatoes had to be peeled and the roast removed from the oven. No one was in sight; so she stepped on the gas.
Whrr! Whrr! A siren pierced through the stillness of the autumn evening.
Oh no! she thought. I’m in trouble. Freddy’s caught me! Now what?
She pulled the blue Pontiac over to the curb. A black police car pulled up behind her with its red light flashing. A man, resembling Broderick Crawford, stepped out of the car, adjusting his gun and holster as he walked toward her. She rolled down her window.
“So, Mrs. Nevenhoven, we meet again?” said officer Freddie Cannon. A smirk cutting across his lips.
“Yes, Freddie, we do,” replied Mom in a deadpan tone.
“Well, you were doing forty-five miles per hour in a thirty mile per hour speed zone. I’ll have to ticket you,” he said.
Mom shrugged. “Okay! But I’m not paying it.”
“What?” he said. “It’ll only be thirty dollars!”
“I don’t care,” she replied with a set jaw. “I’m not paying it.”
He laughed. “Then, it’ll be thirty days in jail. How’d you like that?”
“Well, you’d better lock me up now! Because I’m not paying the fine.”
He stared into her eyes for a moment or so. Then, he shook his head. “No way am I going to put up with you for thirty days. Go!” He spun around and went back to the police car. Mom resumed her journey home.
This is a true story.
Now, Mom would probably not choose the word feisty as a one-word description of herself. She’d rather have a more feminine adjective, but guess what?
Her husband, her two children, her five grandchildren, her many great-grandchildren and, at least, one police officer would agree with the one-word description.
Mom is feisty. Period.
Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. You’re the best!