by Perrin Stiffel
(Tied for 1st place, 2024 Missouri Liars Contest, written category)
The following is true to the best of my memory. Our story takes place some 40 years ago in the freezing cold of December in Webster Groves, Missouri, a suburbof St. Louis. The ice storm hit hard in early morning. The news had hyped it up the night before: “It will be the worst storm of the century and 40 million people will be in its path.” By morning the news said we had a quarter inch of ice. In Webster it was an inch and a quarter, I was sure. Tree limbs fell. They looked like giant popsicle sticks covered in clear ice. Everything glistened like cut diamonds; it was as cold as a brass toilet seat in Iceland.
Being an elementary school counselor in Ladue school district of St. Louis County, I waited with anticipation for the expected phone call from my principal, Mr. Baughman. He would be loved by all teachers and students if he called to say, “No school today!” I was like a 10-year-old waiting for Christmas. I waited...and waited...and waited for the phone call. I rejoiced as I watched channel 5 for the closings. One after the other school districts in St. Louis City and County were falling in line with closures. Catholic schools closed by the hundreds. Closed! A free day! No driving on ice! No bus duty! No cafeteria duty! Every teacher’s dream! I planned my day. I would go back to sleep for a while, stay in my super soft threadbare plaid robe all morning. I would drink hot coffee and perhaps make more coffee topped in Reddi Whip. Have apricot jelly on my warm whole wheat toast and watch the jelly ooze off onto the plate. Then watch Perry Mason reruns on TV to fall asleep once more. What rapture! Alice, my wife was already on the bus to work. And Webster Groves Schools never closed! Just like a sick day alone without being sick. Glorious!
But no call. NOT FAIR! I could see protests in every Ladue home and red in all the teachers’ eyes. Only Webster Groves, Kirkwood, and Ladue were open. DRAT! Maybe I could do a fake Superintendent call to Channel 5. “This is Chuck McKenna. Ladue is closed,“ I would say. Teachers and students would rejoice. No, I’d better not. I prepared for the drive. I also thought it would be dangerous for my daughters Liz and Bec to walk to Avery School. I had them get in the car. I would drop them on my way. Then the Knapp boys next door piled in. The Frikken kids, too. I was the hero of Elmwood! The car had been carefully parked in frontof our house. Good strategy for a snowstorm, but not for ice. I eased forward to the center of Elmwood. The car immediately made a 180 degree turn, with therear of the car leading the front end down the hilly street. Oh, no, I gasped. All 7 kids said not a word. I was as helpless as a newborn baby as the car slowly rested on the other side of the street now facing uphill.
I tried and tried to get the car to move but to no avail. No up and no down, simply lodged against the curb. The kids all said they needed to get to school. They all exited the car and slipped and slid and skated to school. I thought, I have to get to school too. Luckily, we had two vehicles. I got in my other car from the garage and easily made it to school. SAFE!
Right after I arrived, Mr. Baughman said I had a call from the Webster Groves police. You see, the side I was now parked on was no parking. I knew I was not supposed to park there but I really didn’t park there, did I? The police didn’t see it my way. They gave me a parking ticket. Why were the police so all-fired efficient that day? Here’s why.
The WG salt truck had come to de-ice the streets of our frozen suburb just after I left home in our second car. The truck came around the corner of Fairlawn and Elmwood and then slid around exactly the same way I did. As it hit my car the rear of the truck hit the hood of my car, popped it open, and tons of salt poured all over the engine, burying my car. The salt truck drove away with no damage to the monster.
Nervously, I drove home from Old Bonhomme School. What would I find? Of course, now, the streets were fine. As I drove past my corner to park in the garage I glanced at my car. Neighbors with big smiles on their faces were carrying buckets of salt scooped out of the engine. There must have been a dozenneighbors out there with spoons and ladles and anything they could find. After all, free salt for today and the rest of winter. Some even said they were going to useit to make ice cream for the 4th of July. Did they even care my car was ruined or that I had the parking ticket?
I called for the tow truck. The AAA driver said, “Did you know you parked on the wrong side of the street? Here’s the ticket the police have for you.” I wanted to scream but then he saw the salt and laughed. I laughed too.
I called my car insurance man, Don. I told him what had happened. He laughedand said, “We will take care of it.” Then I told him about the ticket. He asked why I got a ticket, and I told him how my car got to the “no parking” side of Elmwood. I said that at least 200 buckets of salt were poured on my engine by the Webstersalt truck. He said I had to go to court and get the ticket cancelled or our insurance wouldn’t pay. I said, “WHAT?” He repeated it. So my court date was set.I was a criminal in my own town. The Al Capone of Elmwood!
The next week I went sheepishly to the court room at city hall. I sat down with the other criminals. Who were they? Why were they here? Perhaps an axe murdererwas sitting next to me. I saw one guy with beady eyes who I figured was a bank robber. I felt my pocket for my wallet. It was still with me. Whew!
I was first up. No lawyer in tow. Just my family as character witnesses. Being a storyteller, I told the judge my tragic tale. Oddly, he became more and more fascinated by my story but more and more irritated by my desperation. I was pleading for my life, and he had power over it. A mountain of salt was poured on my car after the WG monster salt truck ruined my car and popped up the now destroyed hood. Insurance wouldn’t pay if this ticket remained. I said I was a simple educator trying to support my family. My wife, Alice was crying alligator tears. Liz and Bec were especially good with their looks of anguish. I repeated that I didn’t park on the wrong side any more than the truck.
“It was a massacre,”I said.
I told him we were lucky that no one was in the car as the truck demolished it. Tears came down every cheek in court. Oh, the humanity! Even the bank robber was crying.The judge looked at me. He looked at the clerk.
He said, “How do we get rid of this guy?”The clerk said, “Mark the ticket ‘Not guilty!’”
I swear the entire roomful of the innocent and guilty began to dance and celebrate like a Pentecostal revival.
As far as the salt went at the tow lot, we found 4 chunks of rock salt that didn’t melt on top of the carburetor. I placed them in a bag with all the other finds from the car. There were 25 candy wrappers, 3 broken ice scrapers, the Laclede Gas bill from 2 years ago I never mailed, rusty tools, a dead flashlight and more. The Insurance company paid us, the neighbors were eternally grateful, and I was not a criminal.
I did take the four chunks of unmelted rock salt to Scotsman gold and coin shop. They turned out to be real diamonds which I generously shared with the family. Our daughter Liz paid for her law degree at Harvard with one, years later Bec bought a cottage on Mackinac Island with hers, and my wife Alice paid for 2 trips around the world for us and a Toyota minivan. I filled my garden with beautiful irises buying all 80,000 varieties plus 2,201 1904 World’s Fair souvenirs. This is as true as I remember it.
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