Mum learned to drive when she was 55, but as I recall she never learned to like the experience. That didn’t mean she wouldn’t get behind the wheel, of course. On her terms.

In Maine, most roads are 2 lanes, with a shoulder. That shoulder might be gravel or dirt, but as I recall, seldom did the grass actually grow right up to the pavement. Sometimes the shoulder was paved as well, with the requisite yellow stripe to indicate where it started and the driving lane ended. Why am I telling you this? Well, it is essential to this particular piece of poetry.

I’ve been enjoying poetry more and more as the years pass and it never fails that when I mention my growing love of poetry to someone, if they aren’t also into poetry, they will refer to the limerick form. This happened with my son in Colorado. Together, but mostly on him, came this limerick out of a story I have often told about Mum (Grammy to him).

The town police officer was a family friend. I think he went to high school with one of my brothers. Anyway, he pulled Mum over one day to ask her to honor the speed limit and to try to stay in the driving lane. As the story goes, she might have been hugging the shoulder and going about 35 in a 55 just south of town. So, with a smile (and an apology if Mum still is mad about this whole experience), here is a funny little poem about a woman who didn’t see the need to hurry when behind the wheel.

Sib on the Road in Maine

There was once an old woman, a Maine-ah.

Whose fear of speed couldn’t be plain-ah.

Once stopped by a cop.

She near blew her top.

And he wished that he hadn’t detained_ah.