Front-Seat Moments

The evening of January 1st, 1996: there I was, standing outside my home in Sheboygan, WI, with my brand-new Saturn parked proudly by the curb, all packed up.

It was my first big purchase as an independent woman, and I’m ready to hit the road for an 18-hour drive back to Worcester, MA—my new home.

Just six months earlier, I’d graduated from college and landed my first “real” job as an international marketing specialist (a fancy way of saying very entry level). It was an amazing gig, one that had me traveling to São Paulo (where I met George), Mexico City (where I met Ricardo), even Amsterdam (didn’t meet anyone there).

I loved every moment.

One of my first moves upon arriving in Massachusetts was buying that car. Saturn was the obvious choice—I hated negotiating, and they didn’t negotiate. Perfect!

So I drove off the lot in my brand-new vehicle, feeling like I’d made it. I mean, I was earning $26,000 a year, traveling the world, and now had a $312 monthly car payment eating up 25% of my take-home pay. It all made sense.

And I was excited to drive it across the country, with all of my independence.

January 1st, 1996—New Year’s Day. As a 22-year-old, you can probably guess how I spent the night before. Let’s just say it involved all sorts of wild, stupid things that I’ll never put into writing (but, trust me, they were 100% worth it, loved every moment).

Naturally, in true party-girl fashion, I’d taken my license out of my wallet and slipped it into the pocket of a jacket I borrowed from my sister. By the time this photo was taken—me waving goodbye, ready to hit the road—I didn’t (unknowingly) have the jacket or the license.

But leaving was non-negotiable. It was imperative. I had a plan: hit the road in the evening, avoid Chicago traffic, and sail through half the country on Route 90, the Pike—a straight shot.

It was all about timing. Avoid the city bottleneck, outpace the snowstorm. The storm was already a beast brewing, and I had to stay ahead of it. Spoiler alert: I didn’t. I hit it somewhere around Buffalo.

But not before I hit… something else.

Remember, this was 1996. We didn’t have cell phones back then. How did we live? Honestly, I have no idea.

Especially when things went wrong.

Exactly.

So, I do the kisses and hugs, say my goodbyes, and hit the road. I get on the Pike and start sailing through, making good time. If you’ve ever driven this route, you know how it is. The Pike isn’t about charm—it’s about function. You’re either on or off, no quirky little rest stops every mile. Just you, 8-10 lanes of pavement, and a convoy of semi-trucks, all of us barreling through, trying to outpace the storm.

And then, Sandusky, Ohio. A place I’ll never forget. I didn’t notice him at first. I sailed right by. He wasn’t dumb, though—it was way easier to pull over a speedy Saturn than a semi.

Then I saw the red and blue lights. My stomach dropped. I pulled over and waited.

The officer approaches my window—young, but with a presence that filled the night. Big hat, gun on his hip, moving with strength and intention. I roll the window down, and his breath hits the cold air in puffs of white.

“May I see your license and registration?” he says, his voice calm but firm.

Oh shit. Oh shit, shit, shit. Where’s my license?

Jacket pocket.

Oh shit. Not my jacket.

I scramble to explain, my voice higher-pitched than I want it to be. “I am so sorry, officer. I left my license back in Wisconsin, in a jacket pocket. It’s not with me, but I am a licensed driver! I’m sure you can look it up. Could you just, ya know, look it up?”

He stands up straight, sighing as he glances around, clearly annoyed. Then he says, “Please come back to my car.”

Wait…what?

And I don’t. I mean, I don’t move. I just sit there. Frozen. My hands gripping the wheel, my mind racing, my body refusing to cooperate. I sit there for what feels like an eternity, staring out at the dark, watching the semis thunder past, their lights streaking through the night. My heart pounds, but I don’t move.

Frozen, just like the cold outside.

He starts to pick up on what I’m putting down. He moves more quickly toward my window now, his steps deliberate. I roll it down again, and he says, firmly this time,

“Miss, you need to come back to my car. It’s cold out here, and I’m not going to stand here and call this in.”

So I do. I climb out, my legs shaky, and he motions toward the front seat—next to him. I slide in. And immediately, I’m hit by this suffocating wall of heat. The car is so, so hot. Heat blasting from the floorboard vents, radios crackling and humming, filling the silence with static and occasional chatter.

Everything feels too close, too loud, too much.

He starts asking for my name, my information, all of it. I give it to him, my voice flat, mechanical. I don’t look at him—not once.

My eyes stay locked on the floor mats. In the grooves of the ribbed rubber, I notice salt and pebbles, the kind that clings to boots in winter. It looks fresh, like it just came off someone’s shoe. Like mine. The small details suddenly feel enormous, my mind latching onto them to avoid the reality of the moment.

And then he says, his voice deliberate, cutting through the heat and static:

“So, Miss. Miss Amy. Amy. Would you like to see if you can get yourself out of this, or should I write you a ticket?”

What did he say? Oh god, he didn’t say that, did he???

No, no, no, no, no, Yes, he did.

Two thoughts collide in my head, both vivid, both (im)possible.

The first: I could open the door and run. Just bolt. But in my mind’s eye, I see myself slipping, falling, the snow stained pink with blood from being beaten or shot, a scene ripped straight out of Fargo.

The second thought takes over, quieter but heavier. I could make myself small. So small. Curl up, fold inwards, disappear. Like one of those pebbles in the floor mat, clinging there, unnoticed, unimportant. Safe. I just need to get that small.

My breathing slows, my body stiffens. I feel like prey, bracing for the strike.

And then, like the voice of God, a crackle comes over the radio. A voice cuts through the heat, the tension, everything.

It’s calling him. He pauses, listens for a moment, then responds. His tone shifts—practical, congenial, almost friendly.

After the exchange on the radio, I finally find my voice. It’s steady, sharper than I expect, like I’m drawing some invisible line in the air.

“Write me the ticket,” I say.

The words land heavy in the small, overheated space.

For the first time, I look up.

… and there he is, writing the ticket.

Let’s take a moment to reflect on this. First, let me say that, coming from where I come from, I’ve relied on the police many times in my life. There’s a certain safety and comfort in knowing they’re just a phone call away. And that feeling of relief when they show up—it’s real, it’s grounding. That’s my world, shaped by who I am and where I come from.

I know not everyone shares that experience. Not everyone feels that safety, that comfort. For some, the sound of a siren or the sight of flashing lights brings a very different kind of feeling. But for me, that has been my reality—a world where they’re protectors, where their presence is reassuring.

I still feel that way.

Now let’s really look at what he said. Let’s see it plainly, in writing. Did he actually say anything wrong? I mean, really?

The content of his words—“Would you like to see if you can get yourself out of this, or should I write you a ticket?”—there’s nothing inherently wrong with that. Nothing threatening or inappropriate in the literal sense.

But the context? Well, context is everything. Sitting there, in his overheated car, my license missing, the isolation of the highway, the imbalance of power—it all shifted the meaning of those words. They landed heavier, carried undertones that made me freeze, made me feel like I was prey, hot.

That’s the thing about words: they’re not just about what is said. It’s about where, when, how, and who is saying them. In this case, context was everything.

But I mean, after all, if I had complained, what would I even say? He didn’t really say anything wrong, did he?

He wrote me the ticket, just like he said he would, and he let me go. Sent me right into that Buffalo snowstorm.

All good, right?

And let’s not forget, I was the one without the license. I was the one who left it behind because I’d been out partying, not thinking ahead. So, really, it’s all my fault, isn’t it?

And, let’s face it. I was speeding.

I broke the rules. I created the situation. I put myself there.

So, I paid the ticket, moved on with my life, and honestly, I haven’t thought about it (much) again—until now.

Until I started unpacking the last 51 years of my life. The stories, the moments, the ones I feel need to be shared.

Because maybe, just maybe, sharing this means someone else doesn’t end up in the front seat of a cop car in Sandusky, Ohio, in the middle of the night.

And if, by chance, you are in Sandusky, Ohio, right now, look me up. I was driving a 1995 Saturn (brand new at the time), Massachusetts plates. My name was Amy Rommelfaenger (German, fox catcher/trapper). I was given a ticket in the early hours of January 2nd, 1996.

And that ticket came with a story—a story worth sharing.

Here’s the power of this story, and how it shows up in my life rn.

My daughters, 20 and 22—they know. Ask them if they’re ever allowed to stop at a gas station on the highway, especially alone. The answer is no. Only if it’s absolutely necessary. We fill up the tank a day before, hours before, planning ahead so they don’t have to stop. And they know—we never hop on the highway immediately after filling up.

And they know something else: no one is a safe person. Not a single one. Sure, they have cell phones now, but that doesn’t mean they’re invincible. They know the rules.

And when they’re on the road, especially alone, they know that I’m tracking them—100% of the way—on our shared “Find My” app.

Always watching. Always making sure.

That moment in Sandusky, Ohio, taught me a lesson I’ve carried forward—not just for myself, but for them.

Because sometimes it’s not the words spoken, but the silence, the heat, the context that lingers.

And I’ll make sure they know how to avoid their own front-seat moments.

Always.