Wednesday, June 15, 2016

Legacy

I have never felt so lethargic in my life.  I just can't seem to get going with anything.  I have a long list of things that I want to do, yet there seems to be no urgency to getting them done. Mary has been feeling the same way. The two of us have been sniping at each other one moment, and the next moment we will be hugging and trying to hold back the sobs that have been so frequent for the past ten days. Mary loved Rich as much as I did, and we are both trying to figure out what comes next.

We have lost loved ones before: our parents and grandparents are all deceased, Mary's brother, our next door neighbors, who were dear friends to us and wonderful grandparents to our two kids, and others that weren't necessarily as close as family members, but for whom we still grieved. Death is not discriminatory.  It will take us all sooner or later.  Rich's death just fell into the sooner column where we didn't expect to see it yet.

Rich is still affecting us as if he was still part of the conversation.  The current subject would have brought out the best of his verbal skills. Because, you see, the subject is God, His existence, and whether or not He has a hand in everything that happens to us or what we do. Rich and I spent our high school years together in the seminary, so I know he believed in a deity of some kind that had something to do with our very essence. I think though that he had, like I did,  a crisis of faith as he got older. He was no longer the devout Catholic that had brought him to the seminary. I wasn't the same either. Neither of us was ready to dismiss the existence of a higher power.  Just what that higher power was and did was the question that vexed us.

I know Rich wrestled with the very concept of "God" because we talked about that concept many times during our years of lunches together. Rich would never dismiss you if you disagreed with him, but would embrace your ideas and give them the respect and reflection they deserved.  That's what he did when I had a return to faith last year when Mary was so sick.  I found myself praying more and more to my God and seeking solace in the understanding that He was making it possible for me to return to faith on my terms.  When I told Rich that I was attending mass again and that I had, dare I say it, a "born again feeling," he didn't dismiss me out of hand, but was truly interested in how I arrived at this stage in my life.

Mary's concept of God is more mainstream and questioning.  She has an unshakeable faith in God, but just can't understand why He allows all the bad stuff to happen if He is the loving, beneficent God we think he should be. She wants an explanation for all the evil and sickness that we have to suffer through.  When she asks me for answers all I can say is "it's God's will."
That's the best I can do.  It is like we are all game pieces that get moved around the game board while we play the game of "Life."  We all take turns rolling the dice and moving our piece to the indicated place on the board.  The places we can land on determine what our lives will be like. If you are unlucky and land on the colon cancer place, too bad. You got it. Land on the clinical depression spot and you will spend your life depressed. All the diseases we know of are represented on the game board, so you have good odds of suffering sometime during your existence.  Of course if you are lucky, you will land on the "You just won the lottery" place and spend your life living it up and not worrying about the cost.  Or you could land on "you will have a loving wife or husband" place and have a fifty year marriage with a life full of family happiness.

The point is that whether there is or isn't a God we an all agree on, there will always be human suffering, human happiness, human confusion, human disagreements, human expectations of your God, misinterpretations of the so-called word of God, which will lead to wars and more human suffering.  That beneficent God is just trying to stay out of the way so we can use the extraordinary gift of "free will" that He gave us.  All the mayhem and all the sickness, all the killing by lunatics with assault weapons, all the genocide by people who are just like the people they are trying to eradicate, all the thieves who disguise themselves as bankers and fund managers who steal our money, all the alcoholics who drive their cars while impaired, killing our children, all the liars and backstabbers who spread vicious rumors that can cause the ruination of the innocent, all the drug pushers that turn decent people into addicts just for the money they can make selling their poison, are all just mankind doing its best to screw up the chance to live the moral and ethical life that God hoped for when he made us in his image.

All these are the result of mankind using the "free will" that God granted us. I wonder if He ever sits back on His throne, surrounded by angels, and seriously considers pulling the plug on His creation. That mankind could screw up such a wonderful gift from God has to make Him wonder why He bothered to create us in the first place.

While we haven't reached any solid conclusions in this argument, I can hear Rich in the background chortling at some of the more outrageous ideas that spew forth from mouths that should stay shut.  That he would have a lot to say on the subject is a given, but he would never force anyone to agree with him. The more disquieting the question, the deeper he would plunge into the fray, eyes twinkling in delight at the opportunity to display his logical and erudite debating skills.  The quiet force of his intelligence melded with his sense of humor and presented in his rasping voice, won him many arguments when others would have given up the fight in frustration. I lost many an argument to him and got quite an education in the process. But I had my share of wins, too, which he readily acknowledged, delighted that he had the opportunity to enjoy another lively conversation.

How can I ever replace those conversations and my continuing education now that Rich is no longer sitting on the other side of the table? And when will I snap out of this lethargy that I find so debilitating? Grieving for a lost friend includes grieving for the chances lost that can't become memories. I know Rich would want me to get on with it and stop all this mourning and grieving. Time is being wasted by the display of emotion, he would say. But I still need more time to adjust to the new reality in my life. Mary may never give up mourning him, and that would upset him even more.  Rich, old friend, we are doing our best to get beyond the grief that has taken over a part of our lives, but we will never forget you, the reason we are in this emotional predicament.

Wednesday, June 08, 2016

RIP

It was just last Friday that we talked to each other. Typical of him, he called me knowing that my schedule on every other Friday would have me probably headed for home after having lunch after my 11:00 appointment.  I struggled to get my phone out of my pocket, but eventually it gave up the fight and I was able to answer before he hung up.

"Hey, Bob how are you?  Are you feeling  good today?"  These were always the first words out of his mouth when he called me.  If I called him, Rich would respond with the those same words because he genuinely wanted to know how I was doing.

Then he said, "I figured by now, after your appointment at 11:00, you would have finished having lunch and you'd be parked in front of Mary's favorite store, waiting in the car while she did some shopping."

"You can't be serious." I shouldn't have been surprised by his remark because he knows my schedule better than I do. "I'm sitting in the exact same parking spot while Mary is in the same store shopping just like I was two weeks ago when you called me.  Sometimes you scare me."
But that was typical Rich.  He always seemed to know what was going on and where I would be at any given time.  He even reminded me when Mary's birthday was coming up so I wouldn't forget it and get in trouble with her. He also knew all the birthdays of my 3 grandkids.  He never forgot a number once he got it in his head.  Birthdays, anniversaries, phone numbers: he never forgot any of them. His amazing memory allowed him to recite the starting lineups of the Packers first two Super Bowl teams.  He could recall specific plays from any game you asked about, whether it was Packers, Brewers, and even the Cubs, who for some reason he was drawn to.

Our phone conversation last Friday, though, was my chance to ask him how he was feeling.  For the past two months he had been in and out of the hospital several times suffering from an infection of the colon called "c diff," which left him very sick and weak. Worst of all, he had to go it alone because c diff is very contagious and he wouldn't allow anyone near him lest they get infected.  In the hospital he was in isolation with the staff who cared for him having to wear sterile scrubs whenever they entered his room. Naturally I was worried about him being alone with no one to help him.  I could do nothing for him during his illness.  I couldn't run the risk of infection since my immune system is already compromised by PD.  So I was limited to supporting him with phone calls and texts.  That's why I was happy that he called me on Friday.  That meant that he must have been feeling good that day.  He sounded upbeat and normal. We both figured that was a good sign, that maybe the latest medicine he was taking was winning the battle. Rich was confident that he was on the way to recovery.

"I just want my life back." That was his wish everyday.  That was my wish for him, too. Since he was alone with no help at home, he contracted with the home health care service to help him.  He had an appointment with them for 8:00 AM on Monday morning.  When the health care nurse arrived Monday morning, she found him lying in his recliner. He was dead.  He had passed away sometime during the night, peaceably with no sign of distress. His body just had had enough and had given up the fight.

My God, I am going to miss him. I don't know that I will ever be able to fill the gaping void his death created, or climb out of the endless black hole that he left behind.  For 54 years he had been a part of my life. We didn't always agree on everything, but we had a wonderful time disagreeing. Most of all I want to thank you for the fine example of how to live a life honorably and morally right, without compromise or even the hint of hypocrisy.

I could write a hundred pages about all the interesting things that went on between us, by us for us and despite of us, but that would only serve to add emphasis to our strong friendship. It doesn't need more emphasis.  Our friendship was a God given gift that we made the most of and I will never forget HOW we made the most of the opportunity that God gave us.  So goodbye old friend.  I will see you soon enough, so we can continue on doing it all again.

My friend

Have you ever known someone who was so tuned into you that it seemed like he could read your mind? I mean really get into your head?

Have you ever known someone was so pure in his intentions that his life was lived fully through his caring for others?

Have you ever known someone who could and would laugh at himself first so you wouldn't feel foolish for something you did or said?

Have you ever known someone whose whole body would convulse and shake with uncontrollable laughter, his eyes squinting to hold in the tears, that was so contagious that you'd be smiling at the memory of his laugh, but not remembering what caused it?

Have you ever known someone who would unfailingly put your interests first, dropping whatever he was doing so he could help you out?

Have you ever known someone you could confide in, telling him your worries and fears, your dreams and hopes, knowing that he would hold that confidence close and respect your willingness to share those burdens and triumphs?

Have you ever known someone who was so generous in spirit that you soul felt newly
inflated whenever you were with him?

I have.  My best friend, my confidant, my anchor and my wings, my partner in life's battles, Rich was the one person who embodied all those attributes and more.  My God, how I will miss him!
How will I ever bridge the gaping chasm his death has laid in my path?  How will I fill the endless black hole that his passing created in my life?

RIP.  Rich (6/6/16).   I will never forget the many joys we shared and the many celebrations of family for the past 54 years.  Having you as my friend was truly a God given gift.

Friday, June 03, 2016

Never forget

I never made use the opportunity to prove my patriotism and risk my life for my country.  Coming of age during the Vietnam era meant making some difficult choices for all of us who were ripe for the picking. The first draft lottery was held during my senior year in college and I had the bad luck in that lottery to draw a low number. A low number was the kiss of death.  A low number meant your odds of being drafted into the army, and ultimately sent to Vietnam, were heavily in the army's favor.  My number was 88. They passed that number by mid February.

For the remainder of my senior year, everything I did or thought was influenced by my draft status. Plans were made and rejected, then made again when a new idea crawled into the void left by the previous untenable plan. It was a time of anxious uncertainty. On the one hand I wanted to run away and not be found until that stupid war was over.  On the other hand I wanted to prove my patriotism and serve the country that I truly love.  But I just couldn't get past the fear of being sent to a war zone on the other side of the world, risking my life for an unjust cause that was decimating my generation. I knew a few young men who went there and met that fearsome horrible fate that sent them home lifeless, bringing tragedy and sorrow, mournful questions and disbelief, and family emptiness and anger as pallbearers.  Although none of my friends or close acquaintances suffered that fate, I knew from a distance many young men who did, and was torn apart inside when one more fell from an unseen enemy's bullet.

I finally resolved to join the Army Reserve as a way of, hopefully, avoiding being drafted. At the time, finding a reserve unit that had an opening for one more draft avoider was difficult because so many of us were standing in line to get that spot on the roster. But I got lucky and found my new military home in the reserve unit in Sheboygan. I drove to Sheboygan from Madison on graduation day, passing up that ceremony to raise my right hand to swear to defend my country in a far simpler ceremony.

Obviously my plan worked.  I never even came close to Vietnam.  I served my 6 year obligation And added 2 more years on top of that before I was done with the army and my beloved country was done with that hideously wasteful war.

My feelings of guilt or not getting into the jungle, dodging bullets and bombs, and suffering the through that tortuous time, have kept me away from visiting the Vietnam Memorial.  I know I would be shedding uncontrollable tears as I read the names of those who earned their place on that granite slab by making the ultimate sacrifice for their country.  I honor their bravery with my tears. I cry tears that I hope would rinse away the waste of a generation, I assuage my guilt with my tears, and hold the utmost respect in my heart for those fallen heroes. I'm grateful that my name isn't etched in granite alongside those enshrined there. I am grateful that so many were willing and able to do their duty so that I could continue on with my life.  I will never forget those boys (for many of them were just boys) who became men forged in the crucible of war.

I will never forget.

Sunday, May 29, 2016

Productive

I've had a very productive day so far. I got almost everything on the old honey-do list that Mary left for me when she left me.  I mean she left home to do her own thing. No, that doesn't sound right either.  What I mean to say is that she went to town this morning without me to meet Jonathan and our two beautiful grand daughters at the zoo.

I was not invited on the zoo excursion.  I don't know why.  Maybe I embarrass them when I walk around shouting "Free Willy" whenever a zoo official passes by. Or maybe because I hate zoos in general, seeing all those sad eyes and frowns on those unfortunate inmates lazing around in the dust, and sometimes mud, devoid of privacy or any of the real comforts of home.  No, I am not good company at the zoo despite Paul Simon's insistence that "It's all happening at the zoo."

Then again, maybe they only invited grandma along because they had one more admission ticket, and that they know that grandma loves the zoo.  The only thing I'm complaining about is that she gets to spend that time with our granddaughters, whom she loves almost as much as I do.  But a good thing that always comes with her spending time with them, is that she is then happier and easier to live with.  So even though she always leaves me a list of chores to do, I don't mind if she has a smile on her face when she gets home.

But I digress.  I started out to say that I've had a productive day, even though all the things I accomplished were minor piddling little irritating chores that you wouldn't normally set aside time to do.  Like I retied and replaced some of the cable ties that hold the windscreen on the upper deck railing. Like vacuuming the kitchen (even though it wasn't on the list. I just thought it needed doing). Like installing a hook in the bathroom to hang the little clock on the wall.  Like assembling and replacing in their proper place outside, the three burned out garden lights.  And get this--I even baked a dozen gluten free sugar cookies and a dozen gluten free banana muffins. And it's not even lunch time yet. And I emptied the dishwasher and took out the trash.

I accomplished all that and I didn't even have to put my pants on.

Friday, May 27, 2016

Peonies

Jannelle's comment on my previous post that showed the plantings I had done on our condo's walkway entrance stirred up some memories about the peony plant in one of the pictures. She had noted that the plant already had some buds on it, which is somewhat unusual.  The peony plant that this one came from typically bloomed in the week after Memorial Day. Those early buds make me think that I am being watched over by the man who gave me the original plant and taught me how to take care of it.....

When we moved into our house 45 years ago, we were entering a strange new world of responsibility that we may not have been prepared for.  Sure, we knew the basic duties that needed to be taken care of on a regular basis to keep our new home comfy and cozy, but we weren't quite prepared for the myriad mundane chores that seemed to increase in number every month.  The outside work, for instance, was a revelation.  I wasn't so naive as to think the grass would cut itself or the snow in the driveway would  miraculously melt before I could get my shovel, but I was unhappily surprised at the amount of time all those chores took.

But we learned to deal with all work that seemed to continuously pile up. As long as we knew what to do, we had no problem doing it. Our youthful enthusiasm and boundless energy saw us through most of the problems that were stacked on our doorstep. On those occasions when we were stymied by some household conundrum, we relied on the knowledge and expertise and good old common sense that our elderly next door neighbors had in abundance. Thankfully they were willing to pass some of that knowledge on to us.

When it came time to do some gardening or landscape work all I had to do was ask Karol, my elderly next door neighbor, how to get the job done.  Karol was a consummate gardener.  He could grow anything and have the plants thrive way beyond expectations. So when I put in a new concrete walkway from our front door to the driveway and decided to plant peonies on each side flanking that walk, naturally I sought Karol's advice on selecting the right variety of peony, how to plant them, and how to take care of the new plants. I got the idea of using peonies along the walkway from looking at the peonies that Karol had planted along his driveway.  Those peonies were spectacular when they bloomed each year.  I was hoping to get the same result with my flowers.

When I told him I planned on buying two dozen plants, he looked at me like I was crazy.
"Nah." He drew out the word into three syllables in his thick Polish accent, all the while shaking his head at such an absurd idea. "You don't buy. I give you." That made me shake my head at such an absurd idea.
"We take cutting from my plant.  We dig up like this." He took the shovel he had been leaning on and proceeded to split one of the peonies along his driveway in half, digging up a sizable chunk of root stock while leaving the other half in place.

While he dug up the two dozen plants I needed, he told me all about those peonies. When he first came to this country after WWll in 1948 (the year I was born), he lived in an apartment that had the remnants of a garden gone to seed. Among the weeds he found a rather forlorn and wilted peony plant that he took a special interest in. He turned that sickly specimen into a prime example of what a peony should be.  At that time he judged that plant to be around 75 years old, figuring it had probably been planted when the building was built. When he married Emma and moved to a different apartment, he took that peony plant with him.  Then when he and Emma built the house next door in 1962, he propagated all the plants that lined the edge of his driveway from that one plant that he had found abandoned in that backyard 15 years before. That made that original peony about 90 years old. We bought our house in 1972. At that time Karol's peonies, all propagated from that original plant, could be traced back 100 years. For the remainder of the time we lived in that house, 42 years, following Karol's example, I took great care to maintain those 24 plants that were the direct offspring of Karol's  original peony.

So when we sold the house two years ago, it was only natural that we would take a cutting from that row of nearly 150 year old peonies alongside the walkway, and transplant it here where it will serve as a reminder of our history and honor the memory of Karol.

Hopefully that line of peonies will continue for the next 150 years to bring good luck and beauty to whomever has the good fortune to take care of them.

Trains

We never notice it during the day.  But last night was one of those nights when Sleep was hiding just beyond the shadows, afraid that I would grab her and hold on until morning.  During the day there is too much of everything else going on that we would have to concentrate hard if we were to hear it.

Last night, however, during that sleepless interlude when Sleep was flitting in and out of the shadows, teasing me, I counted six times that I was almost lulled toward sleep by the urgent drone of a fast moving freight train. That drone, along with the vibrations that echoed through the ground from a half mile away, together were the unmistakeable announcement that something important was happening either north or south (I couldn't tell which way the train was moving) and it was paramount that the train be there on time, whether to witness or participate I could only guess at.

Clicketyclackclittyclack that train aimed toward its destination, roaring past the barricades that were meant to stop the feeble autos that would skip across the tracks after the train had pulled the last railcar down the line. That roar and its echo changed the night into a Doppler serenade, gradually dying off into a sigh that only those waiting for it could hear.

People have mostly given in to the notion that a passing freight train, heard from a distance, stirs the soul and fills it with romance. There is nothing romantic about a freight train taking its time passing in front of you with a stacked up jumble of cars jamming the one lane street, stopped and waiting for the damn train to pass on by so you can get to your very important meeting. There is nothing particularly romantic about a hungry hobo hopping on a freight train, hoping it was going someplace warm. There is nothing romantic about counting train cars as they move across your only route to that very important meeting. Stuck in a situation like that, I could never count past 50 or so because the cars were whizzing by like they were being chased by a guy named Lionel, who wanted to shrink the entire train and give it to good little girls and boys, or because the passing train was moving so slowly that I would fall asleep by a count of 30.

Can someone please explain to me the immutable law of the Train Gods that says the slower a train moves, the longer it must be with cars overloaded with exotic and other unusual goods destined for exotic and unusual places. And why does it always seem that the train workers controlling their behemoth hunk of machinery can walk alongside their slow moving status symbol, and become more haughty and seem as though they are thumbing their noses at us while we are locked in the parking lot that should be a street, where we are held at bay by that one flimsy barricade pole stretching across our path.  I'm sure that there are many like me who formed amazing fantasies about how the train workers would be tortured with rail spikes driven through their skulls with 20 pound sledge hammers, then tied to the tracks just before the express train arrived with its arrogance on full display, and while screaming for you to get out of the way, chopped those workers tied to its track into hamburgers that would later feed all the hobos on board.

Those hobos had it all wrong. I figured that if you were going to ride on the train, you would do so by sitting in a seat in the specially appointed passenger cars, or if you were really special, in the caboose.  I never bought into that romantic notion, preferring to dwell on the power of the engine that put forth the Herculean effort to pull so many boxcars behind it. That an engine, usually alone at the front of the line, was able to generate enough power to control its family of boxcars, tankers, flat beds, and the punctuation of a caboose, has always been a source of wonder for me.

My train training began when I was maybe 3 or 4 years old.  We then lived across the street from a set of tracks that sat on top of a ten foot berm.  There the tracks were so close that when it passed we could see the gleam in the eye of the engineer, who knew what a special place he held in the imaginations of the kids he waved to as he chugged on past.

That set of tracks also seemed busier at night, too.  That it passed through our neighborhood more slowly than normal may have been a concession to the local powers that be who wanted as little disturbance as possible for the people who lived there.  That was fine with me because I could curl up in my bed, listening to the monster across the street roar on by and feel the vibrations that nearly crumbled the walls of the house and feel safe.

I'm sure that the trains, those scary, noisy monsters, fueled my imagination and provided me the early lesson to pay attention to what was going on around me. That's why I would never cross the street without someone holding my hand to make sure I didn't get too close to the tracks. That's why, although I've never seen it, I have such a clear picture of that train in my mind, when I hear the night trains now, not across the street, but that half mile away. That sound wafting over the terrain that separates us will always bring back those early memories of when trains were exotic monsters to be respected, wondered at, and enjoyed for all their power to inflame boys, now men, with wonder.

Monday, May 16, 2016

Hardware

I was in a hardware store today just because. I wasn't there for any specific reason. I mean there was nothing that I needed from a hardware store, I just like to wander around hardware stores absorbing the aura of machinery, paint, chemicals, plumbing paraphernalia, electrical doodads, and all those nuts and bolts and screws of every size and  shape that you can buy by the case or single piece.  That aura will permeate my soul, keeping it satisfied and content until I can return to recharge that feeling.

Some hardware stores are better than others, of course.  The newer ones with their nice shiny floors, wide aisles, and professional merchandizing, are a bit too slick for me.  I much prefer the old stores that you will find in any prosperous small town.  That is where the business was started by someone's great grandfather and handed down through the succeeding generations.  The store would have solid oak wood floors with ruts in it where customers habitually walk to get to the back of the store to pick up that one S-hook they need to hang the pot of petunias that the wife got at the local farmers' market.   All the walls will be fitted out with heavy duty pegboard that is crowded with the merchandise you just can't live without. Some of that merchandise has been there for years; you can tell by the accumulated dust and the faded package. The seasonal goods will be rotated in the front left corner of the store.  But don't look for Christmas decorations there before Thanksgiving, or the grass fertilizer and  weed'n'feed before Easter.

You can always count on there being knowledgable clerks to help you find the exact thing you need, unlike the new places who hire teenagers who don't know their adz from their zax.  Whenever you go into an old fashioned hardware store to find that 10-24x2 hex nut with the plastic lock washer attached, look for oldest clerk there.  He will probably be named Otis or some similar name from the past, and he will know exactly where to find any esoteric item in the store. If you are unsure of how to do something with that item, Otis will teach you. Otis knows everything there is to know about hardware.

Those old time hardware stores always have guy who can fix anything from the screen door that
your grandson kicked his soccer ball through (from inside the house), to your 25 year old lawnmower that he had to make the parts for. His workshop is usually in the low ceilinged basement lit by 4 bulbs hanging from that low ceiling. Larry (what else could his name be) rarely sees daylight and has bumps that cover every square inch of his head because of that low ceiling. The proof of his dedication to his job is the fact that if he could stand up straight instead of moving around in a bent over habitual slouch caused by the cave he spends all his days in, he would be 6'4".

Give me that hardware store anytime. Entering a store like that is like falling into the rabbit hole where everything is magical. I don't need to need something as an excuse to go into that special environment. All I need is a whiff of the unmistakable air wafting out the open door to lure me inside.

Friday, May 13, 2016

Hypothetical

Mary has expressly forbidden me to write anything about her or anything that has happened to her.  That makes it tough for me to find something to write about since she is such a wealth of material, even on days when nothing happens to her.  So to comply with her wishes, I will just have to present to you a hypothetical situation that could happen to her or has happened to someone like her. I will insert myself as narrator into this hypothetical situation only to keep it simple.

Our protagonist (let's call her Mary, hypothetically, only because this is the kind of thing that would happen to her), was on her way to her hairdresser, with your narrator riding shotgun, cruising down a fairly long hill, building momentum for the climb back up the other side of that same hill. She was talking to me, pointing,and telling me that the bottom of this hill we were rushing down was a favorite place for the local police to set a hypothetical speed trap. Sliding down toward that hypothetical speed trap somehow created enough hypothetical momentum to get the hypothetical car up the hill and to the stop sign where it stopped to catch its breath.

The four way stop at the hypothetical intersection is confusing enough at times. Drivers from all directions vie to be the next in line to move forward, thinking that it is their turn to go. Of course, with all those drivers thinking it is their turn to go, there is a lot of starting and stopping, waving of arms, exasperation on their faces and quite a bit of finger messaging going on. Our protagonist finally got her turn to proceed and squeeled her tires to show how impatient she was. She was determined not to be late for her hypothetical appointment with her hairdresser.

After starting out from the stop sign, our protagonist would suddenly hear, nearby, the chirping sound a squad car siren makes when it is clearing its throat, readying itself for a full blast wail at the villain he is pursuing.
"Did you hear that?" She might hypothetically ask your narrator. " where is it coming from?"  She probably would be a bit confused upon hearing that same chirping getting closer. Finally she would see the flashing blue and red lights behind her.
"I should pull over and let him past." She is after all, a careful driver, observant of all traffic laws who has never gotten a ticket for any vehicular transgression. So she would dutifully pull onto the shoulder to aid the following policeman in his pursuit of the scofflaw that he was after.
U
"What is he doing?" she would ask upon seeing the police car follow her onto the shoulder and stop in the position of control that they do when apprehending serious criminals. "He can't be after me, can he?"  Her hypothetical incredulity was working overtime.

The hypothetical policeman was polite, but cold, when asking our stunned protagonist if she was aware that the law required her to pull to the side of the road whenever a police car was flashing its lights. She would likely answer, a bit petulantly, "of course I know that. I've been driving since I was 16."
"Then why didn't you pull over when you saw me behind you."
"Because I didn't see you there." She would then roll her eyes at the obviousness of it all. "I was looking where I was going, not where I'd been. So why did you stop me"
"I had you going 15mph over the limit coming down that hill back there."
"Well of course I would be going faster down that hill." She was certainly not going to let the logic of the situation be missed. "It is downhill after all."
The hypothetical cop would then take her license and vehicle registration back to his squad car and take his time writing her a ticket while our protagonist would sit and stew in the invective that would be choking her. She would dig deep to cuss that lowlife cop who was making her late for her all important appointment with her hairdresser.
A hypothetical situation like this would probably get a ticket that would set her back around a hundred bucks and the loss of 3 points. She would not be smiling when she told whoever was riding with her (like our hypothetical narrator) that he had better not post anything about this if he knew what was good for him. But all her companion could think of was all the ammo that just filled his domestic armory and how she would never live this one down.