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 Category:  General Non-Fiction
  Posted: June 24, 2020      Views: 74
Chapters:
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 ABOUT
BILL SCHOTT 

Retired Marine; retired high school teacher; married 34 years; father of three; five grandchildren; one rescue granddog.

He is a top ranked author at the #10 position.

He is an accomplished novelist and is currently at the #23 spot on the rankings.

He is an accomplished script writer and is currently at the #3 spot on the rankings.

He is an accomplished poet and is currently at the #44 spot on this years rankings.

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Chapter 1 of the book Attack of the Fifty States
Local police pull over a Northern tourist.
"Attack of the 50 States: Alabama" by Bill Schott



I left my parents' home in Punta Gorda, Florida and pointed my Gran Torino to Lawton, Oklahoma.

Trying to get to Oklahoma from Florida required my driving through several southern states.  The trip was going well until I passed through Montgomery, Alabama. That's when I was pulled over by a county sheriff.

"What's your hurry, son?" he asked as he looked into my car from the driver's side window.

"No hurry, officer. I'm just headed to my new base in Oklahoma."

"Is that so? Well you have Michigan tags on this sports car. Is Alabama a new short cut to Oklahoma?"

I was a bit confused at this point. There was no reason, in my mind, for my being pulled over in the first place.

"Can you tell me why you pulled me over, officer?"

"I'm waiting on your answer to my question, son."

"Okay, officer, here's the story. I used to live in North Carolina, but I got transferred to Fort Sill in Oklahoma."

"They issuing Michigan license plates in the Carolinas now?"

"No, sir. My car is still registered in Michigan, where I bought it. My parents had flown up from Florida and were visiting family there. We traveled back together to their home in Florida."

The officer looked at me, seemingly trying to find holes I my story.

"So did you stop by Fort Bragg and show your folks around?"

"We drove through Camp Lejeune; I'm a marine."

"So they transferred you from the Marines to the Army? Can you do that now? I don't think so, son."

"Can you tell me why you pulled me over, officer?"

"Sure, son. I believe you were swerving over the center line and speeding. Those are two indicators that a driver is under the influence. Your story about why your Yankee car is racing through my state makes me wonder if you're not a drug smuggler. What's this car got under the hood? Is it a 400?"

Suddenly the gravity of my situation was much clearer. I suspected that my 'Yankee' plates got me pulled over and that I would be lucky to leave here with a traffic ticket.

"It's got a 351 Windsor with a high rise manifold, Holley four-barrel, and dual exhaust."

"Sounds like some pricey upgrades for a soldier."

"Marine."

"On your way to a soldier base, right?"

"I'm an instructor."

"Drill Instructor?"

"Meteorology."

The officer stared at me for a few seconds. He still hadn't asked for my driver's license, registration, or proof of insurance. I was hoping that was a good sign and not a drill still to come. 

"So, you're a Marine who teaches the weather to the Army, ramming your beefed up Michigan hot rod from Florida through Alabama, on your way to Oklahoma." 

"Exactly -- uh, except, I'm sure I wasn't speeding."

The officer smiled as he looked over my sleek, yet jacked, royal blue with a silver streak, shiny, waxed, muscle-(looking) car. 

"Well, since you're on your way to help defend us from bad weather I suppose I ought to let you get to it. Obey the speed laws, and remember to get us fair skies for the holidays."

I thanked the officer and drove off wishing I could rent some license plates to drive through Mississippi and Arkansas. 










 

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