Give Him a Ticket

It was a rainy afternoon in Eureka, Cal., where the clouds settled like they bought property and planned to stay. Barbara Webster and her mother had taken refuge in the warm, pie-scented embrace of Marie Callender’s, a place that still believed in tablecloths, proper whipped cream, and a pot of coffee that never runs dry.

Barbara and I go way back, so when she told me this story, I could hear her mama’s voice before she even got to the punchline. Her mama was one of those women who wore a brooch the size of a biscuit and had a stare that could pin a man to the wall, but always with a twinkle behind it—as if to say, “Don’t test me, sugar, unless you want to be politely annihilated.”

Anyway, there they were, mother and daughter, sharing a slice of pie—pecan, if I had to guess, though Barbara’s always been partial to anything with meringue. The rain was pattering gently against the windows, the hum of conversation filled the room like soft jazz, and all was right in the world.

Then it happened.

Across the room, some poor fella unleashed a nose blow that could’ve registered on the Richter scale. One of those real barnburners—a honking so vigorous it might’ve launched his tonsils into his mashed potatoes.

Barbara’s fork froze mid-air. Her mother lowered her cup of coffee, eyes narrowing like a sheriff sizing up a drifter. And in that dry, unhurried tone that only years and confidence can deliver, she muttered, “People should get a ticket for doing that.”

That was it. No raised voice, no huffing and puffing—just a simple decree, like Moses issuing a minor amendment to the Ten Commandments.

Barbara tried to hold it together, but you know how laughter is—it sneaks up on you like a raccoon in the trash. And now, each time she’s in a restaurant and hears someone let loose on a napkin, she hears her mother’s voice and whispers, “Give him a ticket!” then giggles like she’s back at that table again, rain on the windows, pie on the plate, and her mama delivering justice with a spoonful of sass.

It’s a little thing, I know. But isn’t it always the little things?

Life gives us big moments—graduations, weddings, the occasional dramatic fall off a ladder—but the stuff that sticks is usually pie-sized. A certain laugh. A look, a phrase that sticks to your ribs longer than meatloaf.

And if you ask me, we could all stand to carry around a few more of those moments. We’re so busy these days, noses buried in phones, hurrying from one thing to the next, forgetting to notice the world’s full of characters. Full of mothers who still believe in manners and aren’t afraid to lay down the law, one napkin violation at a time.

So the next time you’re out somewhere—say a diner in a town you can’t pronounce, waiting on a sandwich you probably shouldn’t eat—and someone honks like they’re trying to call geese down from the heavens, smile to yourself.

And say it soft, just loud enough for the spirits of all pie-loving mamas to hear, “Give him a ticket.”