I first met a policeman when I strayed from the house where my family was visiting to find a shed almost out of sight some distance away. Under it I saw tractor tires, then the underbelly of what must have been a 1950 Ford tractor, its red paint made even more vivid by the shiny gray of the hood, grille and wheels.
I looked around to see if anyone was watching, then ducked under the shed, checked out the four-cylinder motor, then walked around to the back and climbed up the V-shaped lugs of the right rear tire, and hoisted myself onto the seat.
On the dash beside the steering wheel I found the throttle lever, my right knee brushed the shift lever between my legs, then my right foot could touch — not one but two brake pedals. Later I learned that the two pedals helped you make a turn: if you wanted to turn left, you pushed the left brake pedal, to slow down the left wheel, so that the faster moving right wheel forced the tractor into a turn. To turn right, you pressed the other pedal.
I saw the key and the starter button on my left, but I dared not mess around with them, for I didn’t know about clutches yet, and did not want to repeat the scare I got after I mashed the starter button on Daddy’s Ford Tudor, then half-hopped the curb in front of H.B. Allen’s in Wadesboro one Saturday morning in Wadesboro, so that all the congregants between Fox and Lyon and Wade Clothing Company could see me embarrass myself. I did not like to be caught doing something stupid.
But back in the shed, I just played with the gear shift lever, pulled the gas lever down, made engine noises with my mouth, then pulled off into an imaginary field. I may have completed two rows, when I felt someone looking at me.
I stopped my engine, and looked around to see the owner of the vehicle standing not 10 feet behind me. His arms were folded across his chest, and he looked me straight in the eye, as I sat on the seat of his tractor. He did not move, he did not blink, he did not smile, he just kept looking at me.
“Hey, Cousin Clyster,” I said.
Cousin Clyster said not a word.
“I just wanted to play on your tractor for a little bit.”
Cuz kept staring, so I turned away. I did not look around at him, as I said, “I’m sorry I bothered you.”
Hearing no reply, I peeped around to see that the adult had not moved. So I got up and climbed back down the lugs of the right rear tire — when I faced in his direction, he may have even watched until I stepped onto the ground, and starting walking back to the house.
I learned more about police that day than in all the years before. Clyster was as old as my parents, but no blood kin to me, so he wasn’t really my cousin. In the years I had known him, I had actually seen him only a few times, and never had exchanged words with him, for when he came into the house after his shift was over, he said nothing, just put his badge, his 38 Special and his six-inch leather blackjack on the dresser, then disappeared into the bathroom.
Before I climbed onto his tractor, he had simply ignored me along with the rest of my family, but at the shed he noticed me — sitting there. And with his stare as a basis for my emotion, I decided he did not like me, and I returned the favor.
Clyster convinced me that all law officers are gruff, mean antagonists who could intimidate you with a stare, and if the occasion arose, could whack you with a billy-club loaded with lead — or shoot you with a .38 special which was loaded with lead, too.
Not very good experience to support Daddy’s words “the police are your friend son. You have no reason to fear them unless you have done something wrong.” I guess Daddy pretty well described my experience with Cuz Clyster. I feared him because I had slipped onto his tractor. But I felt his punishment much outweighed my crime.
About eight years later, when I started driving my 28 year-old Model A Ford, I noticed that the old car and Clyster’s tractor were alike in motor, throttle and the floor shift transmission. Of course the car would run 55 miles per hour in high gear, because Uncle Lon put a high speed rear end in it, and I had only one brake pedal, connected to mechanical brakes as tentative as coaster brakes on a bike.
But I could still skid the tires if I forsook the pedal and yanked back the emergency brake lever, which I did when I needed to stop quickly. One spring evening, five of my buddies and I decided to forsake guessing who would dial the Polkton telephone booth next, to find out who was cruising the Tasty Freeze in Wadesboro.
So we climbed in the car, three in the cab, and two on the bed in the back where the cooter shell used to be, then I pressed the starter button, put her in gear, pulled on the headlights, and chugged east on Highway 74. The dialogue I report is approximate.
Just after we crossed Brown Creek Bridge, a Ford sedan came up behind us, and began flashing bright lights then dim ones as it followed close behind us.
“It’s Deputy Dog,” Bean hollered from the back.
“Oh my gosh,” I said, “I’m not speeding.” But my stomach flipped anyway, so I took my foot off the gas, and got ready to yank on the only sure brake I had. In the mirror I saw I was being tailed by the gray and black of the Highway Patrol.
The trooper followed us for a couple of minutes before he pulled the siren.
“You ain’t got no muffler,” came the voice of doom from the back. “You’ve had it now.”
I pulled off onto the grass, probably yanking the brake to bring us to a quick stop, then waited for the trooper to walk up.
As he walked toward my window, I saw that he was about the same stocky size and weight as Officer Clyster.
When he began to speak, his mouth moved, but I could not make out what he was saying.
“Sir?” I asked.
“Please turn your engine off,” he replied, speaking slowly.
“He’s going to write me a ticket for mufflers,” I said to myself as I turned the switch.
“I like your car,’’ said the patrolman, focusing his flashlight on my driver’s license.
He looked up at me. “I notice you don’t have any tail lights,” he said, revealing a slight smile in the flashlight’s glow.
“No, sir,” I answered, “I don’t. Just two big old reflectors. “
“The reflectors almost fooled me,” he said. “That’s why I kept switching from low to high beams before I stopped you.” He paused. “But reflectors are not enough; the law says you have to have tail lights.”
“Yes sir,” I said.
“But, I’m not going to write you a ticket,” he said.
“That’s a relief,” I sighed to myself as my stomach began to settle.
“I just want you to either get some tail lights… or stop driving at night.”
“Yes sir,” I said. “I will do one… or the other.”
“Where do you live?” he asked.
“In Polkton.”
“I’d like you to take the next right and go home,” he said.
“Yes sir,” I answered.
“Just want you to be safe,” he said. “Good night.”
“Good night.”
The trooper walked back to his car, and waited for me to pull out in front of him. But he did not follow me to see that I followed his instructions, but instead passed me, and sped away.
So I drove on down the highway, then turned right onto the back road by Moore’s Store. Just after the turn, we received yet another evening surprise.
“What’d you turn the lights off for,” yelled a voice from the back.
“He didn’t turn them off,” said Tom from the front. “They went out by themselves.”
After the lights went out, I slowed down, but never stopped rolling, for we had a full moon to light our way, and soon discovered we could see better without lights than with them. Our night vision was not impeded by a single headlight as we drove back to town.
I never got tail lights because I had no fenders to hang them on, but I kept my promise, by never driving at night again.
“That trooper’s a pretty good guy,” somebody said later.
“He is,” I thought to myself. “He made me want to do what he asked me to.”
Thankfully officers like Cousin Clyster have never been in the majority, and are rapidly becoming extinct. The ones like Patrolman Goodman, who have been gracious to me, even when I was in the wrong, are the norm now, in spite of the fact that each time they walk up to a car they put their very lives on the line — for someone, who has done wrong may be waiting to take their lives.
My thanks to the brave, kind and gracious police, who remind me even today, that Daddy’s words ”the police are your friend” continue to be true.