Paul and I drove to Yosemite for my family’s 30th year celebrating Thanksgiving in the Woods.


On our way through the Grapevine, Paul marvelled at the overwhelming police presence.  Between Castaic and Fort Tejon, he noticed six or eight highway patrol cars.

This inevitably led us to a conversation about CHPs.  (CHiPS?  How did they write out the name of that TV show?!)  Apparently, he and my father had discussed Erik Estrada at length the night before, and it was decided that even Paul’s lilting accent was going to be no match for the Highway Patrol.  Best to leave Ponch out of the conversation in the event that he got pulled over, and just produce the license and registration.

Little did we know at the time that we were having a recap of the conversation that the boys had had the night prior, my father had been pulled over just ahead of us.

Not that I ever want ill to befall my father, but between the two of us, Paul and I have a massive number of speeding tickets.  Best to just let the old codger handle the cops and not tempt the Irishman into a discussion about why California’s highway patrol would ever wear hotpants.

Needless to say, all was resolved in due course, and the entire family made it to Wawona otherwise unscathed.

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