Forever!: They’Ll All Be There --- Won’T They???

By RICHARD DROPPO

One morning I shared a flight to Montreal with a fallen Soldier on his final journey home from Afghanistan. It was a very powerful experience!
Meanwhile, our entire Country is up in arms about the poor treatment of Detainees!
But dont despair help is on the way. Religious leaders are parading around blessing people and praying that peace will soon be delivered by someone up above. That should work!

Some things are just plain stupid or just plain wrong. I just cant pass them by!

Our Governments have legislated us right out of our jobs, and continue to deliberately outsource our work to low wage overseas Countries. They still just dont get it!
But there is a lot more to that story you havent heard yet!

When I was a kid I asked Santa Claus for a new set of goalie pads and he came through for me. I also prayed every night for God to save my Granny and my Grandfather and my Father, and he failed me. Would bigger collection plates have helped?

Now its time to put it all into perspective. Whats it all for?
Someday in the near future, itll be me at the front of the church.
Theyll all be there --- wont they???
Forever! isnt happening the way we hoped.
As they close my lid Forever!, what will they all really think of my life?
Was it really just All about ME?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 21, 2011
• ISBN: 9781467035163

RICHARD DROPPO

For forty years, Richard Droppo has been a Senior Corporate Executive – in the boardrooms of very large Public Corporations as well as in smaller privately owned Companies. As a Manufacturing and Operations specialist, he has built and started up factories, and he has downsized and closed factories. He has hired and terminated. With a wealth of personal and Business experiences behind him, he has his own unique perspective on many aspects of life --- Governments, bureaucracy, authority, education, Religion, and family. He is candid, humorous, emotional, and even cynical – with good reason! When he sees something that is just plain stupid or just plain wrong, he just can’t pass it by. He has been a son, a father, a husband, a husband again, and an employee. He has relocated his family more than a dozen times for his Career, and has experienced the resultant upheavals on his family and his personal life. He has been there and done it, and he’s sharing it all with you. He just may not tell it the way you expect!

Book preview

FOREVER!

They’ll All be there—

won’t they???

RICHARD DROPPO

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AuthorHouse™

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Bloomington, IN 47403

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© 2011 by Richard Droppo. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 10/11/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4670-3515-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4670-3516-3 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

THE STAGES OF LIFE

WAITING FOR JUDGMENT DAY

RETIREMENT

MID LIFE RE-EVALUATION TIME

CAREER YEARS

THE COLLEGE YEARS—

TRANSITION TO CAREER

THE HIGH SCHOOL YEARS—

TRANSITION TO ADULTHOOD

THE INNOCENCE OF CHILDHOOD

SUMMARY OF LIFE STAGES

LAST CHANCE TO SELF-ASSESS!

DID I GET ALL THE ENJOYMENT I PERSONALLY WANTED OUT OF LIFE?

DID I ACHIEVE MY ENJOYMENT WITHOUT EXPENSE TO OTHERS?

DID I REPAIR ANY DAMAGES I CAUSED?

WAS I A GOOD SON?

WAS I A GOOD PARENT?

WAS I A GOOD SPOUSE?

WAS I A GOOD GRANDPARENT?

WAS I A GOOD FRIEND?

WAS I A GOOD CO-WORKER?

WAS I A GOOD EMPLOYEE?

WAS I GOOD TO OTHERS WHO SHARE THE PLANET?

DID I TRY TO MAKE A BETTER FUTURE FOR THOSE WHO WILL FOLLOW?

SUMMARY

FOR:

My wife Kelly,

My daughter Kelly, and my son Kevin,

My Mother and Dad,

My brothers, Gary and Bob,

and my real friends.

JUDGMENT DAY!

YOU’RE THE STAR OF THE SHOW,

AT THE FRONT OF THE CHURCH.

YOUR LID HAS BEEN CLOSED:

FOREVER!

YOU ARE CENTER STAGE.

IT’S ALL ABOUT YOU NOW!!

YOU’RE ON!!

They’ll All be there—won’t they???

I’m nearing 60 years old, and for most of my adult life I’ve wondered about the meaning of life.

What am I doing here?

How will I know if my life was successful?

How will I know if I’ve lived right?

Is life a journey or a destination?

Questions!

For many years, I haven’t even been able to figure out what the right questions are that trouble me about understanding the meaning of life.

I just know that I don’t know why I was put here.

Should I be trying to achieve something? And how am I supposed to know when I have achieved what I am here for?

Does it really matter to anyone what I do with my own life, or how I live my own life?

Is it anybody else’s business anyway, how I choose to live my life?

Is our life already pre-determined by fate or consequences or some other abstract power from up above somewhere anyway?

Or do we actually have some control over the meaning of our own life?

Questions!

I look around at those who I share the planet with and wonder what they are all about. And I can’t help questioning where I fit in with all of them—in the big picture.

We have all stepped on a bug on the sidewalk without even a second thought. Usually it’s not even worth the effort to avoid it—after all they’re just bugs and bugs don’t have feelings anyway—do they?

We have all passed a transport load of helpless cattle on the highway. All their lives they followed instructions, and did what they were told. They’ll all be dead in a few minutes—who cares about them—they’re just cattle, and cattle don’t have feelings anyway—do they?

Last week I spent a few days fishing with my friends. As the normal everyday method of bait fishing, we would spear a squirming live minnow onto a barbed hook, hoping to catch a trophy Lake Trout so we can brag to our friends. But that’s ok—they’re just fish, and fish don’t have feelings anyway—do they?

Questions—nothing but questions, and more questions!

I wonder about my life, and how I’ll be judged on my Judgment Day.

Will I be just another bug that was snuffed out, and nobody gives a second thought about anyway?

Will I be just another quick service in a busy stream of funerals that day—like just another animal being hustled off the cattle truck?

Will there be anybody there who really cares?

Will I just be forgotten as soon as everyone has made an appearance, had a sandwich and goes home to their usual routine?

How will I die?

Will I be just another minnow on a hook—a victim of some senseless act, sacrificed for someone else’s frivolous pleasure or carelessness?

Will I die for something worthwhile?

What will they all really think about my life?

Who will even remember my name?

A friend of mine recently died.

I had known him for many years, through my Business dealings mainly, and as a result, had developed a great respect for him. He certainly had many good qualities and was widely liked and respected by all who knew him.

He had been sick for the past few years, to varying degrees, apparently as a result of his sociability, and his never ending generosity in the pub. No friend of his would ever sit with an empty glass as long as he had a dollar in his pocket.

His death, nevertheless, was a shock. He was roughly the same age as me, and that hit pretty close to home.

I hadn’t seen him in a while. I felt kind of ashamed, because I really had no idea he was sick enough to be dying.

Anyway, too late now!

I couldn’t help wondering—What kind of a friend was I?

His many friends and co-workers of the past several decades scrambled to network and make sure that everyone would be informed of his final funeral arrangements so we could pay our respects for his life.

Several days passed and the announcement of his arrangements never came.

It was already over!!!

It had been decided that there would be no visitation, and no funeral.

I was shocked from disbelief. This must be a mistake. After fifty some years, was there no significant meaning to his life at all?

Surely, even though he had experienced some personal issues in the last couple of years, his life overall was worth more than that!

But too bad, it’s done.

His life is over, and like a bug snuffed out on the sidewalk, he’s gone—Forever!

And life on the planet just continues, apparently unnoticing.

He was about the same age as me, and in an instant he was gone and forgotten.

That left me to wonder even more about the meaning of my own life.

Is that really all my life will be worth too?

I’ve gone to many funerals in my life and it seems that as my years progress, each of those few moments of reflecting seem to stimulate a deeper need for me to understand the meaning of life.

Is it all just about achieving maximum self satisfaction out of life—no matter what the consequences to others?

After all, you’re going to be dead a long time, and apparently nobody else will care about you then anyway.

Is it every man for himself, survival of the fittest?

Should we just do whatever it takes to accumulate as much as we can, and then completely self indulge on the rewards?

Is it acceptable to manipulate whoever or whatever it takes in order to get to the top, where the power and glory and rewards are?

We only get one go-around, so we should grab everything we can from it—shouldn’t we???

About a year or so ago, I was booked on an early morning flight to Montreal.

Looking out the large window of the waiting room, I could see clearly that our plane was there, but we were not boarding yet.

There was nothing I could do about it so I went about reading my notes for my upcoming meeting.

Already my busy schedule was going to be off to a bad start today.

Can’t these people even start their first flight of the day on time?

What about ME, and my important priorities?

The gate attendant finally came on the loudspeaker.

But rather than the usual instructions about luggage and pre-boarding, she announced that our flight would be carrying the body of our most recent fallen Soldier, for his return journey to his home in Montreal.

Like everyone else in the waiting room I turned inquisitively to observe our aircraft out on the ramp.

I had never experienced anything like this before and had no idea what it was all about.

The sight was unforgettable.

There were RCMP, Fire, Police, and Military men and women, all in full dress uniform. Their formation respectfully guarded the slow and deliberate transfer of a casket along its path to the ramp of the plane.

They saluted the flag-draped casket, as it was ever so carefully loaded onto the plane.

We all stood watching—stunned at what we were seeing. Every single person there was fighting to hold onto their emotions!

This has to be one of the most powerful moments of my life. It was reverent, beautiful,—and horrible!

What is the meaning of life here? Is it All about ME for this young man?

Take a good look—there are already some real answers here!

I believe this was the single most important moment that caused me to search in earnest for my own meaning of life.

The accompanying Soldiers were of course on our flight.

I couldn’t help wondering if it would be appropriate to say something to them.

But what would a person say?

What would be appropriate?

Of course in the end, I defaulted to minding my own business, as Canadians usually do, as if there was nothing out of the ordinary going on around me.

Did I, and everyone else that day, handle this situation properly?

I was really overwhelmed by the power of this experience.

And I did not even know this young man.

Admittedly, I’m ashamed to confess that I still don’t even know his name.

Does this say something about our selfish priorities?

Once again, more real confusion for me about the real meaning of life.

What is the meaning of life anyway?

So far, I’ve been able to categorize the options into three possibilities.

Firstly, the simplest and most obvious possibility is that it’s straight forward—It’s All about ME.

Maximize self satisfaction! Don’t worry about consequences.

Secondly, at the opposite end of the spectrum—maybe I should be dedicating my entire life to bringing satisfaction to others—even at the expense of my own self satisfaction. But is that what we’re really here for?

I think of the brave 20 year old Soldier who gave up his life fighting for us in Afghanistan—sacrificing his entire life for others. That seems pretty commendable, but is that what life is all about?

And there’s a third possibility—perhaps it should be some sort of balance—a compromise of self satisfaction, and yet bringing satisfaction to others around us as well.

I wonder—am I getting enough out of life for myself?

And at what cost am I achieving my self satisfaction?

Have I caused damage or distress to others in order to achieve my own selfish personal objectives?

Do I make life better for others around me?

Do I also help others to succeed?

Do I help others to get satisfaction from their lives?

Am I doing anything to make a difference for those who will come after me in the future?

As I recount my own life-experiences—their outcomes and their causes, maybe my personal quest can help to stimulate the right questions within you as well.

I’m not an accomplished, experienced writer or journalist.

As a matter of fact, I haven’t even read a book since public school!

I hate to read. I don’t have the patience for it. I figure if a book is good enough, I’ll wait and see the movie so I won’t have to concentrate. That’s a lot more satisfying to me.

The one exception that I must confess to however is Letters from a Nut (by Jerry Seinfeld); a book that my wife swears could have been my creation.

But, although I don’t like to read, I do like to write letters to vent to people for things I see that are just plain stupid, or just plain wrong, knowing full well that the recipient will likely just scoff at the idiot who sent them in.

Things like residential parking tickets always get an accompanying letter of advice for the meter maids.

Why don’t they go out and look for constructive ways to improve dangerous road conditions—like where the corner sight triangles are not properly maintained on busy intersections. Everyone else can see that these obvious blind spots are a menace for oncoming motorists, and continuously cause very predictable accident damage and an endless stream of injuries.

Why can’t the people who are paid to protect us actually do something positive or even try being pro-active sometimes! Imagine that concept!

As a constructive suggestion, why can’t meter maids be taught to multi-task? While they’re driving around trying to identify parked cars that aren’t moving at all, why can’t they also be taught to recognize that when two cars are bonded together at a blind intersection with their bodies mashed together, there may be something not quite right there that needs fixing. I realize that not every City employee has the skill set to carry out two such unrelated tasks like those at the same time, but even my Labrador Retriever can carry two of my slippers at once!

Or why can’t they go and chase the really inconsiderate people parking in the handicap spots at the grocery store?

Apparently my daughter visiting for the weekend and parking on the road in front of my house is more of a menace to the public—or is obviously an easier target.

Being a reasonable person, I even get it, that the snow ploughs can’t get around parked cars to clean the streets at night. But this is July 1st weekend, and winter up here doesn’t start till at least July 15th—even in the world they live in down at City Hall!

Well, anyway, at least I know my motorcycle won’t get ticketed in the expectant mothers’ parking spots.

The meter maid rests by day and lurks in the quiet of the night, fighting the ever-dangerous threat of parked cars!

Sometimes I just get real confused figuring out the whole process behind these annoying misuses of public resources.

Who pays these meter maids to do this to me anyway?

Oh yes—it’s me!

I just send (tax) money into our municipality (not voluntarily) for them to responsibly manage the resources necessary for the common safety and convenience of all of us permanent residents. They then turn around and use my own money to pay someone to stalk my street at night and fine my own daughter for parking in front of my own house while she visits me.

Some things are just really stupid—and really wrong!

I also have to laugh at some other recent new initiative that must have been created by another one of our city’s experts on public safety or something.

I was still stinging from a stupid parking ticket that one of my friends got one night when he very responsibly left his car in my driveway overnight, after a few too many sodas at one of my pig roasts. Actually I was very impressed in the first place that he had done the responsible thing for once and had called a cab to get himself home that night.

We had pulled his car into my driveway, as close as we could to my own two cars, but the tail of his car—allegedly (we have to use the official terminology in serious legal actions like this) extended two feet out into the sidewalk.

Admittedly, we were not really focused on the city bylaw technicalities at the time, and neither of us was actually very experienced at doing the responsible thing in these kinds of circumstances anyway.

We were just being good considerate citizens trying not over work the meter maid who would be waiting around the corner to pounce as soon as our lights went out.

There are about 12 houses on our entire street, which is a quiet side street in an old part of the city.

Unfortunately, we have never actually conducted an official survey ourselves, but apparently there must be a congestion issue on our sidewalk between 2am and 6am on weekends that we have never been aware of all these years. And since every City problem has a practical solution, my friend had a parking ticket to greet him in the morning.

That time it wasn’t my ticket, so I had no place to staple a letter to offer my own public safety recommendations. But I really did have some suggestions for the brilliant geniuses down at City Hall who make their living off of this pathetic exploitation.

Again, some things are just really stupid!

But what is really wrong is that once again—I’m paying for this.

Anyway, a few weeks later, I came out of my house and found a form on my windshield, commending me for parking my own car overnight in my own driveway, and not locking the keys in it, or something brilliant like that.

It was an official City form, but I have no idea what City employee was being paid to lurk around in my driveway at night, messing with my vehicles—or why.

I presume this was some brain wave to lay the foundation for future new bylaws—for my own improved welfare of course, about how I will be able to use my own driveway, or something important like that.

But in the ten years I have lived on this quiet little side street, I have never had a serious overnight parking accident—or even an incident—except from somebody putting chalk marks on my guests’ tires or leaving their stupid parking tickets on our windshields.

However, within a week of getting this new motivational form stuck under my windshield wiper, my car was broken into for the very first time ever!

You have to now understand that I’m not normally one to bask for long in praise or compliments, so unfortunately I had already discarded that valuable Driveway Safety Commendation document from a week ago.

So I was now very disappointed that I wouldn’t have something to attach an information letter to, and without that, I couldn’t even imagine what City department to send it to.

So once again they’ll have to just do without the valuable customer feedback till next time.

However, at least I can see my municipal tax dollars still efficiently at work.

Admittedly, this time it really wasn’t anybody’s fault at City Hall that my car was broken into, but I was just really frustrated about a few stupid things, all at the same time.

What really hurt though was that whoever went to all the trouble to break into my car had insulted me—they left my best Tammy Wynette and Patsy Cline cd’s laying on the seat!

Once, however, I think my silly letter did actually get a Canada Post mail box moved from a dangerous corner, after it obstructed motorists’ views of oncoming traffic for who knows how many years.

For as long as I have lived in this particular location, I have personally observed the mop up of at least one accident a month at this same intersection, and yet nobody—except me—thinks to question if there is a problem???

Nobody that I can remember has ever pointed me out to be extraordinarily brilliant, but even I can see that something is really, really wrong here. And I’m not even being paid to protect the community.

Obviously, handing out tickets to parked cars in the still of the night is a higher priority for those with the authority, and with too much of my money to manage responsibly.

Anyway, I guess it’s easier this way—unoccupied parked cars can’t argue logic.

One of my more notable annoyances with authority was getting pulled over for speeding a while ago—a whole 102 kph in a 100 kph zone. That earned the detachment sergeant a four page rookie training manual by the time I finished.

The normal running rate on that four lane highway is 120 kph, and I have never heard of anyone being ticketed for less than that.

I came up on a cop who was cruising along at exactly100 kph on a Sunday afternoon, and traffic was bunched up behind for a half mile, like an accordion. I could see that this was ridiculous, and I decided to nudge my cruise button by one notch at a time, and cautiously move on.

One click got me 102 kph, I collected a bit of side draft, and I began to inch past him.

I expected a polite tip of the hat or a friendly nod as I moved carefully by.

Instead I got lit up with the whole display of flashers.

Admittedly, I may be a bit of a cynic sometimes regarding authority, but even I couldn’t imagine that this was just because I had had the audacity to pass an official police officer on a highway.

But I was obviously being pulled over for a tune up for something. It was way too early to be handing out Christmas turkeys to careful drivers!!

After adjusting his hat to just the right official angle, he strutted up to my window, hand poised deliberately over the hip, (punctuating to me that he was packin’ heat), and announced that I had disobeyed a posted road sign.

I told him that the only one I could think of that I had taken notice of recently was the deer crossing sign back a couple of miles, and I had watched carefully ever since then.

But apparently in his town, 100 kph means 100 kph, and somebody had just given him his first gun to announce it. At this point, I couldn’t even imagine how much shit I’d be in if I was busted for 110!

Then, when young Barney Fife was done with his little display, it was my turn to show him he wasn’t just dealing with Opey of Mayberry here.

I didn’t have a hat to adjust to just the right angle, but I approached his cruiser with my pencil poised deliberately over a McDonalds quarter pounder wrapper, and brazenly collected his badge number and the number on the side of his cruiser.

I think my intimidation worked—now I was turning the tables. I’m pretty sure that’s when I even mentioned that his manager would be getting my complete customer satisfaction survey on Monday.

He only detained me for fifteen or twenty additional minutes after that, and eventually let me off with a warning this time, then he wished me a good day as he drove off into the sunset—at 100 kph.

That was indeed a close call overall—I could have been facing up to a $6 fine if he hadn’t been so lenient with me!

I actually expected a reply from that letter, but it never came.

So I’ve since changed my license plates, just in case they considered my literary intentions to be non-constructive. And I know Barney will be watching next time I pass through his town!

A few days later, after I cooled down a bit from my encounter with Officer Barney, I realized that maybe I had been fortunate after all—that he hadn’t gone back too far on my rap sheet looking for other equally serious priors.

I might actually be red-flagged already as a hardcore. Although I’d never been busted for 102 before, I admittedly have had some 115’s.

And if he’d known that at the time, I’d still be there explaining my reckless actions.

Actually, my very first real encounter with the law was when I was nine years old (luckily, before computers started tracking us young offenders).

The motorcycle cop in town lived two doors down from my friend, in a townhouse row. His name was Legg, and the kids called him Boot. (We were pretty astute, even back then).

He was well known as a bully who abused his authority, and even at nine years old, we didn’t have respect for him.

I think he had already been in trouble for pummeling someone—probably that’s what you get for 106 in a 100 kph zone in Boot’s town!

After his shifts, he would have to cross my friend’s back yard, (always without asking permission), to get his motorcycle to his own yard, and he had a muddy path already worn in my friend’s yard.

That was when I had one of my earliest discoveries of things that are just plain wrong.

So once, while he was out on patrol and his bike was gone, I got the bright idea to put up a sign: KEEP OFF THE GRASS—THIS MEANS MOTORCYCLES TOO!

I printed it all out carefully, so I wouldn’t get in trouble for bad spelling, and I nailed it to the corner of my friend’s fence where Boot would be confronted when he returned.

Well, not every one of my plans back then was flawless. I hadn’t really thought out the next move too thoroughly, but I guess I shouldn’t really have been too surprised to be summoned from my road hockey game a little later—by my friend’s father—and Boot.

I’d never really seen Boot’s face before—he usually had a helmet on whenever I saw him. But I recall that time it was quite unnaturally red, with a very distinctive quivering. And he had a very angry-sounding voice.

He was talking about charging me.

Charging me? How did that happen? I thought we would be charging him.

I’m really not too sure what I had been expecting as an outcome from this undertaking, but I think the plan must have been to work him into submission, and eventually concede to some sort of friendly but firm negotiations. We could maybe end up with $1.00 per crossing for my friend and I for life, and we could quit public school and retire early.

I was only nine and not really too experienced at negotiations yet, but so far this didn’t seem to be going too good!!

My friend’s father was also still getting the brunt of a major tune-up. Ever since my friend and I had arrived back at the scene of the crime, he was being offered plenty of what Boot was calling free advice—about parenting of his delinquent son and his felonious friend (I’m thinking that was me).

Finally, my friend’s father had absorbed enough free advice, and suggested that since Boot had now crossed the line—in a couple of unwanted directions, he was to promptly leave—and stay off the grass!

I knew that Boot always considered himself as judge and jury, so for a long time after, every time my parents went to the post office, I fully expected to be getting my sentence in the mail.

I was only nine, but I had it figured that the worst I could get would be ten years of community service before I was old enough to be leaving town for College. I knew that pissing Boot off was serious, but I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be doing hard time, bustin’ rocks in the hot sun, for my first offence.

And if the rubber really hit the grass, my neighbor was a real estate lawyer who would surely defend me for a cut of the crossing fees. He would do anything for money!

But messing with the law, even Boot’s Law, was not to be taken lightly. I was convinced that even though I knew I could eventually be rehabilitated for my crime, I would surely be carrying a criminal record for the rest of my life.

And if Officer Barney had known this when he apprehended me for my 102, I’m sure I’d still be in his crib downtown paying for my life of crime.

I was never formally sentenced by Boot this time, but I didn’t just get off totally free without any repercussions either.

My friend wasn’t allowed to play road hockey with me for a week. And I had my crayons confiscated for good.

I was still learning about Criminal Justice at the time but that still all seemed like pretty harsh punishment to me. Doesn’t anybody ever believe in making the sentence fit the crime?

I’m not against Police in general—it’s just the way authority is sometimes used—or misused—by them or anyone else.

I really resent when the Police search out the places where roads are obviously mis-marked as far as speed limits in relation to driving conditions.

We all know places where the speed limit has no relationship to any particular presence of danger. Those are the places where the radar traps lurk—day after day, week after week.

I got my first ever speeding ticket on my motorcycle last week. I absolutely never speed on my bike, and I have always taken pride that I would never get a ticket while biking. I make sure that I am never pressed to be somewhere on a schedule that is more important than arriving alive. My bike is for safe, controlled leisure—not for scheduled destination transportation.

With my wife on the back, I cruised up to a little hamlet of six or eight houses out in the country, and as I approached it, I dropped down a couple of gears for the 60 kph limit.

Of course, being a small residential area, 60 is a very logical speed—a dog or even a child could venture out onto the highway unexpectedly.

As I cleared the built up area, and headed out into the open country again, I leisurely ran up through the gears to get back up to the regular 80 kph cruising speed again.

Two miles down the road I was flagged down, to join a group of five other alleged criminals who had also apparently come out that day to recklessly race through the countryside—including two old ladies, who were as perplexed as I was.

I was busted for 75 kph in a 60! And more criminals like me were being pulled over even as we sat waiting for our turn to be processed.

What a Saturday afternoon cash bonanza!

I asked why they chose to set up radar in the middle of the open country, rather than in the little town, and was told there is a danger at this spot from gravel trucks that might pull out onto the highway from a nearby gravel pit. And there have been a lot of people hurt there.

Naturally, I’m thinking that if there is actually such a particular danger, then resources would be much better spent on addressing the cause of that danger, rather than just collecting revenue from its carnage.

In this case, they might even consider busting those gravel trucks that are supposedly pulling out onto a busy highway without stopping!

So I have no idea what this encounter accomplished for anyone.

Firstly, the real cause of all these accidents of people driving into gravel trucks has not been addressed.

Secondly, most of the people who drive that country road get tricked