A longtime N-P reader.
Mrs. William (Alice) Seyfer, 90, sent a note along with her check to renew her subscription to the News-Press.
"I think it was 1912 or 1913 when we started taking the paper. We lived in the country," she said.
We remember her late husband well. In fact we took a picture of him standing on his head at a NC Saddle club meeting . . . when he was about 65 years old. He prided himself in that feat.
He died in 1959 and his widow lives at Milder Manor, 1750 South 20th Street, Lincoln, Nebr., 68502.
The Seyfer children are Pete of Nebraska City, Mrs. Charles (Jean) Bouse, Lincoln and Mrs. Dorothy Niday, Eagle.
Our friend, Betty Peterson Sharp.
The death of District Judge Betty Peterson Sharp is a tragic loss for her family, the community and the Nebraska Bar Association.
As an attorney she felt her clients were always right, as a prosecuting attorney she was a fireball to put it mildly, and as a district judge she was at a position where she was most qualified.
We've seen her on the job. More than once, a defense attorney learned she had the ability and a temper to go with it when he lost his case in front of a jury. And yet, she commanded the respect of members of the Bar Association. On the courthouse reporter's beat she was "Betty." And when the State Supreme Court justices joined the governor and a host of others on her appointment to the district court bench, the appointment went to "Betty."
We were there when the Supreme court justices congratulated her as the first woman appointed to the district court bench. It was an historic occasion. Betty was modest. She smiled and thanked everyone.
She was the daughter of a well known attorney in Nebraska City and she liked using her maiden name. County Attorney Betty Peterson Sharp and District Judge Betty Peterson Sharp was also Mrs. Sharp and a mother of three sons.
Her family misses her and so do we. When we look at the courtrooms now we'll remember that feisty 100 pound prosecutor from Otoe county who graced the court with her poise and dignity.
A morning to remember.
Did you happen to see the TV show in which a motorist was "Badgered" by the driver of an unpainted gasoline transport? It was a strange story. And that's what it was . . . just a story. It could never happen. Ha! Lean back in your easy chair and read how The Buck almost got it!
I had to pick up a man at a motel near the Omaha airport at 7:30 a.m., so I got up before 5 a.m., had a breakfast of bacon and eggs, started the car and returned to the house for another cuppa coffee. The weatherman said the roads were a bit slippery so I decided to leave a little early. I drove U.S. 75 in place of the Interstate. That was my mistake.
South Omaha streets were slippery and sanding trucks were on the streets. There wasn't much traffic until I got to SAC. I was in the right lane. I noticed the car stopped beside me at the traffic light. The driver looked at me. It was dark enough that I couldn't see him clearly, but he didn't have his lights on. So? So, what the heck, it was getting near daylight.
When the light turned green, we speeded. It was strange, but not entirely unusual that we drove at the same speeds (35 m.p.h.) and no one behind us could pass. At the next light I speeded up in case the drivers behind me wanted to get around. That driver in the other lane stayed right beside me.
At one point in traffic I signalled to get into another lane when there was a good opening. No trouble. Just routine. At least that's the way it seemed. As I pulled over, the opening seemed to collapse. I pulled back. It was that driver again.
Well, phooey on you buster, I thought, so I stayed in the right lane and out of his way. He continued to drive side by side. No one could pass.
I decided that I would get away from him by turning east off 13th street and go to 10th street and then north to the airport. I turned sharply off on the first street. He didn't have time to do anything about that . . . he went on to the next block and then did the same thing.
By this time I thought I was having a race with a dumb-dumb, so I forgot my gentle efforts, rammed the accelerator and sped to the stop sign at 10th street, then turned north.
(I haven't done any zippety-zipping like that since I drove a 1959 sports car sideways on the Whitehead race track on a Sunday afternoon when no one was around.)
The speed limit is 40 and that's what I was doing when suddenly this car, the same one, pulled onto 10th street directly in front of me. It was getting kinda hairy.
I said some words that fit the occasion, pulled into the right lane and gave the nut all the road he needed. This all happened in a few seconds over a block and a half.
He held the side by side position and then I saw it . . . a parked car in my lane. I honked, turned on my signal lights, looked at him (couldn't see his face) and at the last moment hit the brakes skidding some 40 to 60 feet right up to the rear bumper of the parked car.
That driver wasn't as quick with the brakes as me and the moment his rear bumper was clear, I pulled in behind him to avoid colliding with the parked car.
Then I was a bit hostile. I rammed the accelerator and this time was trying to get close enough for something. He pulled a quickie on me, turned right sharply and disappeared down a street before I could slow enough to make the turn.
That's it. That's the story. I continued on to the airport, and picked up my passenger.
Cars are a hobby with me and I can usually identify them without too much trouble. But what I had just gone through made me think.
What if I had hit that parked car?
What questions would the police have asked me?
Boy, I knew them all. That crazy SOB dang near got me banged up. But, wait a minute.
I don't know what kind of a car it was. It was light, a two-door (I think). I didn't look at the license plate. I couldn't describe the driver.
I wouldn't have been much help to the police. They probably would have looked at me a bit strange and invited me to the police station to take the test. Whew!
Strange . . . it did happen. I don't know why.
I drove home on the interstate.