My mother passed away several weeks ago at the age of 93. I spoke at her funeral, and as I thought about the stories I might tell, I reminded myself that my mother was the original Bulldog. This story illustrates the point quite well.
My mother drove well into her 80’s, and one day she was driving in the town south of where she lived when she was pulled over by a young policeman. It turns out that she had failed to mail in her registration renewal and it had expired. She accepted the ticket from the police officer, and then told him that she would drive straight home without any stops. He said that, unfortunately, she would have to have the car towed.
So, my mother pulled out her auto club card and started to dial to get a tow. This time, the policeman pointed out that she would have to be towed by the company that the town selected, at her expense. They waited together for almost (a silent) hour until the tow truck came. It was a massive tow truck, and this matters because my mother, at her tallest, barely brushed 4’ 11. I digress on this point for a moment. Lately, there has been a lot of talk about Google’s driverless car. Thirty years ago there was a whole group of drivers that were convinced that there was a driverless car already; they had driven behind my mother!
As my mother’s car was hooked up to the tow truck, she said to the police officer, “I can’t get into that truck, the steps are too high!” That was when the officer made his crucial mistake. He picked my mother up like a doll and placed her on the front seat of the tow truck. If looks could kill, I am sure the officer would have been struck dead on the site. My mother and car made their way home, and somehow, the driver helped her descend from the truck.
That was just the start! My mother began calling her friends and telling them what happened, eliciting much sympathy. The storm gathered and by the time it hit, there were articles in the newspaper, and even one of the state’s senators entered in the fray. When the court summons arrived for the violation, she pleaded not guilty, “I am going to tell the judge what he did to me!”
My mother attempted to talk to the chief of police in the town, but he would not take her call. She then began working on the mayor. After she finally spoke to the mayor, he called the chief and suggested that he take my mother’s call. During that conversation, my mother opened up on him with both barrels, forcefully asking the question, “Would you want your mother to be treated like that? Assuming of course, that you had a mother!” The chief assured her that the young officer would be counseled on his mistake. And, in the interest of peace, the ticket was cancelled.
My Uncle Bernie provided the perfect denouement to the affair, “There’s a police officer in that town that is very, very sorry he ever pulled over Ida Callahan.