For whatever reason, my trash service has not been coming by to collect. I have called and called and been reassured each time that they would get it next week. After a month, I gave up and took matters into my own hands. I had an old barrel in my backyard that hadn’t been used for a long time. I dumped some burnable garbage in the barrel and set it on fire. 

About ten minutes later, two local police officers came to the yard.

Officer #1: “Ma’am?”

Me: “Oh! Hello.”

Officer #1: “Ma’am, are you burning something?”

Me: *Standing a few feet from the barrel.* “Yes.”

Officer #2: “We received a report of a house fire in the area.”

Me: “Um… I don’t think so.”

Officer #2: “And how do you plan to control this burn?”

Me: “There is no foliage above the barrel, it’s in the middle of an 8x8ft cement slab, I have three buckets of water and a hose here, and I’m burning little by little, so the flames do not go above the lip of the barrel.”

Pause.

Officer #1: “Why aren’t you putting your garbage out in your bins?”

Me: “I pay for collection, but they haven’t collected in a month. I keep getting told they’ll be here every week, but they’re not. I can’t let garbage pile up, that’s unsanitary.”

Officer #2: “You could take it to the dump.”

Me: “Which is extra money I shouldn’t have to spend since I’m already paying for a service I’m not receiving.”

Officer #2: “Who is your collection company?”

Me: “[Company Name].”

They exchange a look.

Officer #2: “Thank you. Please just… continue to be careful.”

I continued my burn until it was done, then completely soaked what was left. The next week, my trash was finally collected! I may never know what changed but I have a feeling the officers who visited me also visited the collection company.

This story reminded me of an incident I witnessed on the Pennsylvania Turnpike several years ago. This happened right about the time that Ford discontinued their legendary Crown Victoria, and police departments around the country were replacing their fleets of Crown Vics with other models.

So there I was, cruising along the Turnpike. This particular stretch of highway was six lanes, three eastbound, three westbound. I was heading westbound in the right lane, cruising a little over the speed limit (nobody drives the limit on the turnpike) when I was overtaken by a Dodge Charger in the left lane. Charger wasn’t going too much faster than me, so it took him a minute or two to get maybe three car lengths ahead of me.

Then a black Range Rover came screaming up in the left lane at WAY over the speed limit, much faster than the Charger was going. It slammed on the brakes, parked itself maybe a foot behind the Charger’s rear bumper, then laid on the horn. Before the Charger could move over, the Range Rover slid over into the middle lane (without signaling), darted past the Charger, cut the Charger off as it came back into the right lane (again without signaling), then brake-checked the Charger.

Seconds later, blue lights began flashing behind the Charger’s rear (and I assume front) windshield, its taillights began blinking, and that unmistakable wail of a police siren began echoing off the highway’s concrete sound deflectors. And I started laughing so hard my sides hurt.

Range Rover had just road-raged at a cop.

The Range Rover immediately put its blinker on and slowly pulled over to the right shoulder.

I, of course, drove on, but I like to imagine that the cop walked up to the Range Rover with the biggest s***-eating grin on their face and told the driver, all polite-like, “I’m not even gonna ask if you know why I’ve stopped you.”

This happened back in the late 80s, during the times of The Troubles. I was living in Felixstowe, a coastal town in Suffolk, which is about as far away from Northern Ireland as you can go in England without getting your feet wet.

Despite that, we still had reminders of the dangers of the IRA and unattended bags, beyond the horrors we heard about in the news. For example, Felixstowe hosted the first major Conservative Party Conference after the Brighton Hotel bombing. I still recall cycling to and from school for the week leading up to the conference, looking up at the shop roofs all along the high street, counting all the police snipers. Fortunately, nothing newsworthy happened, but teenage me still found it all quite fascinating.

Felixstowe is near a number of RAF and US Air Force bases, and some personnel lived off base in Felixstowe. Everyone who worked at the bases was briefed on the importance of bomb safety, particularly as car bombs were a known tactic of the IRA. Packages left next to your car were to be treated as dangerous.

So, when a member of staff from one of the bases left their house to see a backpack next to their car, they did the right thing and called the emergency services. The area was cordoned off, and the bomb squad attended. The way such potential devices were dealt with was by means of a controlled explosion: a remote-controlled vehicle would be driven towards it, and it would fire an explosive round at the package. I think they use the remote to move the package first, to minimise what gets damaged? After it has been declared safe, Forensics can then sift through what’s left to find out who was the responsible party.

Which is why, the following day, a local radio presenter announced that the student who didn’t notice when his bag fell off his moped had possibly the best excuse ever. “I’m sorry, but my maths homework was blown up by the bomb squad!”

This was the late 1960s, and Lyndon B Johnson was president.

There was a fad at the time of kids about my age opening the doors of cars that were stopped in traffic and getting into them.

I had a very strict mother at home who wanted me to grow up to be a good Christian Lady, never mind that I was a mousy little Jewish girl, so I took every opportunity to cut loose when I was away from home.

By which I mean, I was all over this fad like cute on a bunny. I was playing through the streets with my friends, darting into cars, sitting in strange men’s laps, then just darting away, giggling the whole time.

Well, my friend and I saw a really nice looking car, and we decided to give the owner a little girl surprise, so we ran up to it, each opened a door, and plopped ourselves in.

And I found myself sitting in the lap of Vice President Hubert Humphrey. My friend wound up in the lap of what was probably his protective detail.

Mr Humphrey took it remarkably well. He raised an eyebrow at me, then said:

Vice President Hubert Humphrey: “My daughter’s old enough she could be your mother. Don’t you have something better to do?”

Me: *Cheekily.* “No, sir, school’s out for the day, so I’ve not got anything better to do.”

Vice President Hubert Humphrey: *With a great deal of resignation in his voice.* “I suppose, then, it’s a good thing you’ve nothing better to do: My protective detail’s going to want you to answer a few questions.”

At that point, a rather muscular man opened the door and manhandled me out of Mr Humphrey’s lap.

My friend and I were detained at a police office for HOURS while we were questioned about why we were doing that, and how we got past the ‘cordon’ (Apparently, ‘what cordon’ was absolutely the wrong answer.)

When I was finally sent home for the night, I was worse than late for dinner.

Trust me, I contemplated not telling this story, but it is too unique not to share, and it has a much happier ending than I thought it was going to be.

During my days off, I often scour around new fishing spots. This morning, at approximately 10:45 AM, I was checking out a spot in the upper Tomoka River. There is a 15-to-20-foot bridge that crosses the river at that location. I decided to park my car and walk the span of the bridge to see if I could see any spots worth fishing.

 On my way back to the car, as I was peering over the bridge, I noticed an African American body with the upper torso wrapped in plastic. The legs were crossed, and the feet were sort of sticking up in the air. The plastic was perfectly wrapped around the head and the upper torso, but you could clearly see the feet.

I immediately went into a panic. After catching my breath, I immediately dialed 911. After helping the dispatcher understand where I was over the phone, I waited until two officers arrived.

I walked them to the location on the bridge. My heart was still pounding and racing, and in my head, I was thinking that after all these years, it has always been a fear of mine that I would come across a dead body, especially since all the crazy places that I venture to.

As we approached the location where I found the body, I pointed to the officers and said:

Me: “It’s right there.”

Visually shocked, the officers went down to investigate and told me:

Officer: “Go back to the car.”

The whole way back to the car, I’m still shaking, and my heart is still pounding. Around ten minutes later, I noticed an officer heading my way. The officer shouted:

Officer: “We have good news, it’s a sex doll!”

I immediately breathed a sigh of relief and let off a little bit of chuckle, as did he.

Me: “I can’t believe it; what are the odds?”

Officer: “I can’t believe it myself. I’ve been with the department for ten years, and I thought it was a dead body. I had the whole department on their way over here.”

When I left, they were still trying to figure out what they were gonna do about the life-size sex doll.

I’m so happy that I didn’t find a dead body in the Tomoka River today. It just goes to show when you’re out there, you never know what you’re gonna come across. I did my good deed for today. I’m thrilled that it was a false alarm.