Are we there yet?

As a small child I remember annoying my parents by asking the seminal question when traveling, "Are we there yet?"

This question has a close cousin "How many more miles until we get there?"

Not only do I remember saying these things, I remember being an adult and having my children annoy me. It is 200 miles from our house to Glendive where my children's maternal grandparents reside and it was another 200 miles to reach Roundup where their paternal grandparents used to live.

So we did what we could to entertain the children -- games, movies, music, etc.

But what do you do when your 88-year-old father annoys you when he asks, "how much farther is it?" over and over and over. Now the reason he asks the question every five minutes is because he doesn't remember he asked it. For him, each time is the first time and he thinks he should have the right to ask it. For the others in the car, the word "annoying" really starts to take on newer, more profound meaning.

So it should come as no surprise when you hear I got a speeding ticket heading to Rapid City over the Memorial Day weekend for my sister's and brother's birthdays. But let me give you a few more details.

We had eaten dinner in Bowman and as we drove south toward the South Dakota border, I was passing cars in fairly short order. There were no twists and turns to the road and 65 just seemed a little slow for someone who is being asked, "Are we there yet?" for the hundredth time.

I can't remember all the cars I passed, but I remember one that looked the oldest Winnebago on the highway and there was also a car that looked like a highway patrol car, but it turned out to be a white Buick Park Avenue....like we have.

Anyway, 30 miles from Bowman was Buffalo, South Dakota, and Grandpa and Belinda decided that they needed a bathroom break. So as I pulled off the road at a Sinclair station, I noticed that all the cars I had just passed -- including the Winnebago -- were now passing me.

When the family was back in the car, I headed straight south again. No turns, no twists...and no going 65 mph. Pretty soon I had caught up with the train of cars and began passing them.

About the time I had the Winnebago in my rear view mirror, I came upon the car that looked like the patrol car...only this time I wasn't going to be fooled. So I didn't slow down, I didn't even get back into the right-hand lane. I simply was going to pass it.

As I quickly approached it, I noticed that it no longer was a Buick Park Avenue...this time it was a patrol car. So he turned his lights on and I pulled over to the side of the road.

Sitting in the front seat beside me was Grandpa who saying that I hadn't done anything wrong and the highway patrolman must be out of his mind for pulling us over. I hushed him as I reached over to the glove box to get my registration and proof of insurance.

The patrolman came to my window, and I handed him drivers license and other pertinent information. He asked me to step back into his car...which I did in an instant so I could get away from 88-year-old commentator who insisted on giving my wife a play by play of all the cars passing us.

When I had sat down beside the patrolman, he looked over at me and said, "I have to ask you just one question....didn't you see me?"

I still have no idea how to answer that. Do I tell him, "No I'm blind." Or should I say, "Well, I thought you were a white Park Avenue that I had already passed 30 minutes ago?"

Neither seemed like good answers so I kept mum. Then I said, "Oh, I see that I was going 76...that was a little fast I guess."

It certainly was. He gave me a $90 speeding ticket and said that I could pay him now or make a court appearance or mail a check when I got home. Well, not wanting to hear the wrath of my wife when she eventually would write the check, I thought that paying him now made a lot of sense. But I only had $80 in my wallet, so I went to my car to see who had $10.

Belinda said she had a $20 bill. I said, "Jeez, honey, I don't think he's going to make change."

Dad had a $10 bill so I went back and paid the fine.

When I got back to my car, Belinda said, "Well, that wasn't bad was it? A $10 fine isn't too bad."

Perhaps I should have left well enough alone, but I told her that it was really a $90 fine and I had four twenties in my wallet.

I could tell she wasn't happy as she began to explain all the things she could have bought in Rapid City with the $90.

But 10 miles down the road, Dad had completely forgotten about it. Of the two, I appreciated Dad's approach much better than her's...until he asked me, "Are we there yet?"