If I ever start a story with the line “My sister and I…”, buckle up. We have some strange adventures. For example, last weekend my sister and I went shopping for an anvil and came home with two armloads of old books. That story is coming in a future newsletter.

But let’s jump into this story.

My sister and I were on a road trip, driving close to the edge of the Earth. We hadn’t seen a house for 5 miles. We hadn’t even seen a cow for 5 miles. The only living things in sight were two antelopes racing across a far hill.

Not to worry. We weren’t bored; we were talking. Then I looked down at the speedometer. I was driving 80 mph.

“Oh, man,” I said and immediately lifted. Lifted is a racing term I learned from my husband. I don’t race. Except maybe when driving at the edge of the Earth.

As I lifted, we flew past a crossroad with a state patrolman sitting at the stop sign.

He pulled me over. He walked up to my window. “Do you know why I stopped you?”

“I was going too fast,” I said, and he nodded. “How fast did you catch me at?” I wondered if I had managed to slow down at all before he clocked me.

“Eighty.”

“Yeah,” I said.

He took the usual stack of paperwork back to his car. When he handed it back to me, he leaned down and looked into the car. I don’t think my sister waved at him, but, knowing her, she might have. Then he said, “Use your cruise control after this.”

He walked back to his car and pulled away. No ticket. No warning ticket.

My sister and I both took a deep breath as he drove over the next hill.

I owe that nameless patrolman big time.

And that’s why I have given my sister permission to nag me about the cruise control.