As promised, here’s yet another essay written by my late grandmother. I recently found a stack of her essays, written when she was in her 80′s. Here’s one about my grandfather, Leslie, and how he saved his wife in the desert.

Jeanne Menconi…many years before the incident in the desert occurred.

SAVED IN THE DESERT

By Jeanne Menconi

Returning from our daughter’s outdoor wedding near Salt Lake City, Les and I were traversing that huge part of Utah which has no redeeming features at all. The divided highway ribbons into the distance; an occasional bit of scrub growth relieves the uninspired terrain; the light is dull, but we know that outside our cool Oldsmobile capsule it’s a hot, hot day.

I was at the wheel — more an indication of Les’s utter boredom with the landscape than a testimonial to my driving skills. We were alone in the universe and I was making good time. Suddenly, looming out of the heat waves, a car rocketed toward us. As it passed, I groaned to Les, “A Highway Patrolman!” In my rear view mirror I saw him execute a neat, swift u-turn across the divider. No longer alone in the universe, I slowed onto the shoulder preparing to face my fate.

Citation book in hand, he recorded my information. Courteously, he asked me to step out of the car; Les unfolded himself on the passenger side. Still the gentleman, the officer invited me into his air conditioned cruiser. As I slid across the smooth vinyl seat, it came to me in a flash what all this courtesy was about: mounted on his dashboard was a little electronic screen with flashing numerals; in discreet green flickered: “54 – 54 – 54″. Above these cool numbers, in fiery red, were the damning digits: “72 – 72 – 72″. I’d never seen a radar screen before, but I caught the significance at once: I was cooked. The speed limit at the time was 55.

My nemesis slid silently behind the wheel. Les-the-quick-witted, head bent in the doorway and one foot still on the pavement, said conversationally, “Oh, you have radar. We can’t use it in California.”

I could almost see the antennae rising next to the patrolman’s ears as he said, “You traffic?”

My hero replied, laconically, “Nope. Narcotics.”

Women’s lib went out the window and I began a stealthy slide under the dashboard. From my invisible perch, I listened to the two professionals establish rapport.

The officer explained that the 55 limit was dangerous in this barren landscape, as drivers tended to fall asleep at the wheel. The trouble was, he continued, that the slower speed was mandated by the federal government to conserve energy, and federal funds for the state depend on cooperation in maintaining this limit. The two colleagues bonded in their feelings about bureaucracy and stupid laws. I held my breath; my name was already on a ticket. Was it too late? My heart sank as he filled out the ticket and gave it, not to me, but to his pal Les.

As Les swung the car out onto the highway to resume our journey, he handed me the ticket: a $5 fine for wasting energy.