Dad and my “heavy foot”

Dad said on more than one occasion that I had a heavy foot. But I came by it honestly: inheritance. Once, just after Dad had purchased a used car (which had a faulty speedometer) he was on the freeway, timing himself by the mile markers in order to determine his speed, as opposed to what the speedometer said. State trooper pulled him over, told him he was doing 60 mph (speed limit was 55). Dad said, “Yah, that’s probably about right.” He then explained what he was trying to do, and he got let off with a warning. (And he normally went a lot faster than that.) Contrast that with my mom’s experience. I got to witness this one, as I was with her. State highway, state trooper—happened to be someone we knew, as he lived in our town and went to our church. She was doing over 70 (again, 55-mph limit). She was polite as she tried to explain the hurry; he was polite. She got a ticket. We didn’t let her forget it for a good long time. On the day of my high school graduation, I had to be on the U. of Minn. campus in the Twin Cities for a rehearsal. As a state winner in the annual piano competition, I got to play a piece with 19 other pianists—really big piano duet, huh?—and couldn’t miss the rehearsal. Supposedly there was enough time after the rehearsal to collect my sister and get back home well before graduation. Yeah, well. Traffic was heavy on the way to get my sister. We were way late when we finally left the Twin Cities. I was afraid my father wouldn’t drive fast enough, so I insisted on driving. (n8daogg, if you’re reading, stop right now! You really don’t know to know your mother’s delinquencies of decades ago!) The drive at 55 mph (then the state-wide limit) would take two and a half hours, but we had barely two hours before I was to march in. So I went 85–90 mph most of the way. Note, not once did Dad tell me to slow down, though I think I recall him saying, “You’re going kind of fast there, then.” I have no idea what my sister was thinking. Got home to find Mom ready and waiting (anxiously, need I say?). I ran upstairs, changed my clothes. My shoelace broke, so I had to pull on some old clunkers. We hopped in the car, Dad driving this time; they let me out at the main door. I pulled on my cap and gown just in time to get in line and go on in. Luckily, I had arranged for someone to take care of my music for choir and band (and my trumpet) so all I had to do was slip into my places at the appointed times (I was also the choir accompanist…)