“To err is human, to forgive divine.” -Alexander Pope

         I have a checkered past when it comes to run-ins with the law. I have lost count, but I have probably been stopped by various officers of the law at least a dozen times for various traffic infractions. OUCH!!

         Most of these incidents took place in my younger days when I was always late and trying to catch up, and I didn’t really get it that 35 means 35. It doesn’t matter if you don’t agree. Don’t go 45 or 65 if the sign says 35.

         One of the first times this happened was when I was student teaching in Souderton Pa. I was trying to get to my first day’s meeting with my Penn State student teaching instructor. This was in the dark days before GPS when you were just supposed to follow lines on a paper map. I was confused, nervous, scared, and disoriented…actually I wasn’t sure which end was up, wasn’t sure I really even wanted to be a teacher. Before I knew it, there was a siren, and a handsome young cop pulled me over. “Do you know how fast you were going?” “No,” “45 in a 25-mph zone. It’s a school zone lady, didn’t you see the little kids trying to cross the road?” At which point I started sobbing. He let me off, and I learned a lesson: don’t speed in school zones, and crying helps.

         On and on it went. On my way back from State College I had a carful of passengers, my sister and our collective children, when I was pulled over near the Lycoming Mall for speeding. I felt indignant. I wasn’t going that fast. I didn’t cry, I got the ticket, and then my three-year old terrified daughter threw up all over the back seat.

          I got pulled over coming home from a square dance with a carload of kids. We were all dressed in tie-dyed tee-shirts.  It was almost midnight and when turning right at the top of Bank Street in our small town, I accidentally slid through a stop sign. There was nary a car in sight, except for a lonely cop in an invisibility cloak, who pulled me over, and gazed with disbelief at the carful of tie-dyed tee-shirted kids, and my dozing husband in the passenger seat. He let me go with a warning. Such a nice man!

         There was my old student-turned-cop, Chandra, who nabbed me as I was zipping through Mehoopany. “Sorry, Mrs. Castro. I’d like to let you go, but rules are rules.” Yeah, yeah, yeah. For that one I think I got a couple of points taken away. Yikes! Thanks, Chandra!

         I was going up the hill, headed out of Tunkhannock one day with three boys in the back seat when I noticed the familiar red flashing light. “S#&!…Start crying!” I told them. For shame, involving children, I thought to myself, and I started laughing and couldn’t stop.  That was the wrong thing to do! S#&T, S#&T, S#&T!

         Eventually, I learned my lesson. I started driving no more than five miles above the speed limit. I knew that I was on the right path when my kids started to complain that I was driving too slowly.

         And now it’s been years since I got on the wrong side of the law. Rules are rules for a reason, to keep everyone safe. I am older and wiser now.

I have pretty much learned to start a little earlier to get where I’m going on time, or to just accept that I will be fashionably late.

         Until my mother died in June.

         A couple of days after the funeral I was coming home from taking my son, his wife, and baby girl up to the Syracuse airport. My mind was not in a good place. I was so sad. And I was not entirely paying attention to how fast I was going, even though I know that there are always at least 100 cop cars along 81 between Binghamton and the Canadian border. Before I knew it, I was flying past a cop car. Woah, Bessy! I put on the brakes. Too late. There he came, like a shark smelling blood. There was traffic flying by and I looked for an exit. I kept driving. Pretty soon I was sweating. OMG now I’m going to get it for evasion too. So I pulled over, even though there were cars flying by, and I was worried for the officer’s safety.

         Pretty soon a child dressed in cop clothes appeared at the passenger window. He could not have been over fifteen. “Do you know why I pulled you over?” he asked.

          Duh.  “Yes, I was speeding and I am very sorry.”

         “You were going 75 in a 55-mile area.”  Whoops!  I gave him my credentials. “Where were you coming from?” he asked.

         “I was coming back from dropping off my son and his family at the Syracuse Airport.”

         “So you had a great 4^th of July celebration”? he asked innocently.

         “My mother died,” I blurted out. And I started sobbing uncontrollably. “I’m sorry, Officer. I gave the eulogy; I didn’t break down in front of all those people. I’m so sorry,” I could not get control of myself, and as I was crying, I was also thinking, “Oh, mom! I don’t mean to use your death in this way to avoid a ticket.” Of course, my mom knew my history.

         “It’s ok,” said the young fellow, “I’m sorry for your loss. Let me just go back to my car and check out some things.” I just kept crying. I could not stop.

         He came back a couple of minutes later. “Ma’am, you are free to go. Just be careful out there. There are a lot of nut cases out there, and I don’t want you to get hurt.”

         “Oh, thank you, Officer,” I said through my tears, “I’m sorry again. It’s been a long couple of weeks.”

         As I pulled away cautiously, I pictured my mother laughing from her far-off perch in heaven.

          And I am done speeding… forever. Probably.

Thank you for reading this.