The Delight of Riding In A Car With Me

When Marc was approximately age eight, I was talking to a friend about the fact I am not a good driver. I stated that I never start the car without first praying to Jesus to remember we both know what my driving is like and He absolutely must take control of the car. Marc quipped, "No wonder you drive like you've only seen chariots!" At his tender age, he recognized my driving was/is not quite as it should be.

I do not take chances. I strive to be alert and attentive. I have not ever done something risky or dangerous with intent to be a show off. I wish I were better at a skill I admire in others. I try to avoid rush hours and major thoroughfares. Give me a nice straight highway or freeway and I will happily drive for hours. Show me a city or even a small village looming on the horizon and I will gladly switch to the passenger seat during the trip though the populated area.

In my Walter Mitty dreaming, I see myself driving with lots of other vehicles in a smooth performance of synchronized driving to beautiful music. Artful twists and turns of vehicles of all shapes and sizes are maneuvered in and about cones and barricades while people in the stands are mesmerized by the vehicle driven by me. Such skill, such timing, such precision! I do amaze and astound onlookers for certain, just not the way my imagination wishes.

My father's entire family for generations died prior to the age of 46. I was born when my father was turning 45. He had a grave fear of suffering a stroke or heart attack while driving and injuring others on the road or his own family. By the time I was four or five, he had given our car away and until I was a teen and my sister Pat purchased a car, we used street cars, then buses, or taxis to travel into Minneapolis proper. Otherwise we walked. I really never had the urge to drive a car. I will qualify that I did have the urge to drive anything else that was beyond my ken or ability such as tractors, over-the-road tractor/trailer rigs, tanks, road graders, snow plows (the ones with three blades), and even the small Cats lovingly referred to by me as scooper-doodles. Of course, I always thought I wanted to ride horses until I got my chance and the beast ran away with me bobbling along like a sack of flour on his back.

You are now probably understandably picturing someone not quite well adjusted in her thinking. My family would nod wholeheartedly. Mr. Toad in Wind In the Willows is not my hero although I recognize his interest in the newest and biggest machine in sight.

Necessity is the mother of invention also the reason I drive at all. In 1996, Dave was preparing to leave for Viet Nam and Helen and I needed me to drive to stay in the apartment we called home. Mr. Patience Personified said he would teach me to drive. Not realizing I had never sat in the driver's seat of a car, he opened the door, ushered me in, and looked confused when I asked what he was talking about when there were two pedals and one of them was supposed to be the brake. He entered the passenger seat and went through it all again and told me to "drive on"! I did. I drove about three feet straight ahead into a snowbank! All I can say is that he was not very nice when he told me to get out of the car and pleasant would not describe the 45 minutes it took him to shovel the car out of the snowbank.

Lessons continued intermittently until the final lesson from Dave showed that there had been little progress. I tried to park in front of our apartment. There was no curb but a tarred hump that marked the difference between owner's lot and the road. I did not know such a small lump of tar would take the wheel out of my hands, dumb lump! I brought the car to a halt about three-quarters of an inch from the tree in the center of our landlord's front yard. Dave adjusted his army cap with the visor completely hiding his eyes from me and through clenched teeth hissed, "Just where in Hell did you think you were going?" Well!

Dave left for Viet Nam and Helen and I were living with Mom and Pat. It was a good arrangement for all of us. Helen was born 10 August, Dad died 14 August, and Dave departed for Viet Nam on 24 August. There was enough grieving to have filled a year or two all in one month. The bright spot was Helen. Pat agreed to take over my drivers' ed and Dave and I paid another month's rent for the apartment.

Pat discovered I had (well, have unless I am careful) an unusual knack for driving up to a semaphore shining bright red. I stop. I look both ways. I sometimes go even if it hasn't changed to green yet. I have only had two driving citations in all my years of driving. The second one an officer pulled me over and asked me if I knew why. Now, that is a trick question because you spill your guts about all the things you are not good at. I said, "No, I do not know. I was not speeding, I stopped for the light, I looked both ways, I made a legal left turn, all my lights work and our plates are up to date!" I remember thinking he looked rather sad regarding my smug little answer. He sighed! "You stopped at the light and while it was still red you made a left turn in front of me." He wrote the ticket and we paid $80.00. Pat learned my little quirk extended to stop signs. I will sit at a stop sign with drivers behind me wondering what my problem could be. No problem. I am waiting for it to turn green. Horns can sound really ugly sometimes. Suffice it to say I learned to be very alert at stop signals of any type because when I performed my little oddities, Pat smacked me in the back of the head!

Dorothy, my eldest sister, was the blessed one who got to be my licensed driver when I went to take my test. My first test was at a place where they set up a test city. Everything is like city driving but in miniature. I could not comprehend the smallness of it but I was told I was a good driver; I just needed more practice. The testing officer did not shriek at me like Pat, hiss at me like Dave, nor whisper "oh, my" like Dorothy (Dot). My second test Dot paced nervously holding Helen while the officer and I went on actual city streets. He was chatty, trying to put me at ease. He asked if the baby was mine. He was sympathetic and kind about Dave serving in Viet Nam. He asked who the nervous lady was. I answered all of his questions. He asked me if I was living with my parents while Dave as overseas. I explained that depended on whether I could actually pass my test or not. I was doing well. Then I had to parallel park. I tried. I really did. It was obvious I was going to hit one of the bright orange cones. I stopped. I had been told I could acknowledge I was not able to complete the parallel parking. That would lower my score but not be an automatic fail like bumping or running over a cone. I smiled and told the officer I could not do it. He said, "Pull out and try again." Oh, fudge and flamingos and flapjacks! I pulled out, backed in and ran over a cone. I put the car in park, turned it off and roared, "Look what you made me do!" I started to get out of the car (no clue where I thought I was going, but I knew I was done driving). He put his hand on my arm and said, "OK, drive back to the test station." We got out of the car. I was so close to tears I couldn't even look up. He walked past my sister and patted Helen on the back. "She passed," he told them.

The winter of '66 to '67 was very snowy. I wanted to be prepared for what ice and snow could do to a moving vehicle. I drove to an empty parking lot early one morning and practiced starting and stopping, I confess I liked it when I stepped on the brake too sharply and I spun all the way around. However, even my twisted little mind knows you can't do that on the roads to and from home and work. I learned to control starting and stopping and managing unexpected fishtail moves by the car. I felt good about it. However, I didn't have to worry too much about skidding because I spent ninety percent of that winter stuck. Stuck at my sister's where Helen was cared for while I was at work, stuck in front of my own apartment, stuck in the middle of an intersection in Richfield. There were so many kind people who helped me get unstuck. Our next door neighbor was very helpful. He taught me to put a rug under the rear wheels to help. One morning at 5:00 AM I didn't want to wake him to help me. I didn't have a rug handy. He looked out their window in time to see half a broom fly past their window and lodge in some bushes at the back of their yard on the alley edge. I shot that hummer a good 70 or 80 feet. It went under the wheel where the handle broke in half. He came out in pajamas and slippers to tell me to not ever be creative again and to always, ALWAYS ask for help. He didn't have to shout; I am not hard of hearing!

Through the years I had the same things happen that happen to other people. Mine get tacked on to my saga creating mistakes bigger than life. We had a VW Bug and I learned to drive a standard transmission. I went all over in that car and did well. The time it killed on a freeway exit ramp was not my fault and the ensuing problems were beyond my wildest imaginings. By this time, I believed firmly in God and had begun asking Jesus to play Avis for me (you know, "Leave the driving to us!"). Helen was four or five years old and Marc was a year or eighteen months. They were in the back seat. We stalled, the car rolled backwards before I could brake and the bump I heard was our Bug striking a semi with trailer. I was sure I would be sued, what would happen to our insurance when the damages were met and . . . what on earth was the semi driver doing? He must be furious! There he was climbing on the back of the Bug. I struggled to get the car in gear and pull ahead. Now he's jumping on it. Oh, Lord, if ever you helped anyone please help me now! Again, I let out the clutch and stepped on the gas. Now the burly semi driver was coming to my window. I opened it barely the width of a piece of tissue paper and stared open mouthed and wide eyed at him. He said, "Lady, stop giving it the gas. You are going to kill me. Your bumper is stuck under mine and I'm trying to get you unstuck!" With disgust he went back to jumping on the back of our car. There was a slight popping noise and he yelled to me to pull ahead slowly. I did. I stopped the car and warily exited. I went back to him and held out an insurance card, asked if I had done much damage, and told him how sorry I was.  Odd man. He started to chuckle. That grew into a laugh. That turned out to be whole-body shaking and howling with tears coming from his eyes. When he could catch his breath, he put the insurance card back in my hand and said, "Honey, you couldn't damage my rig with that roller skate of yours and you didn't even scratch your Bug much." With that he returned to his rig still laughing and waved me on my way. If he reads this I hope he knows that he would have been more of a knight in shining armor if he hadn't laughed.

In my early driving, there was no law that said children had to be buckled, strapped, locked and bound in special seating. Kids rolled around like peas in the back seat and just being in the back seat made them safer, experts said. At one point, Helen as a pre-teen let out a yowl and I looked in the rear-view mirror in time to see her slide from right behind me to the other side of the car. I had taken a left turn maybe a little fast. I gave Dot the same treatment one time but the only noise was a loud thump and a small oooomph as she slammed into the opposite side of the car. Pat was riding in the front passenger seat of our VW Bug and Helen and Marc were in the back seat (where they were "safe"). Pat was giving me directions and said, "Turn here!" I was nearly past where she wanted me to turn but I made the sharp right and kept the proper lanes. There was a loud thump and I pulled the car to the right and stopped. I looked in the back seat and said, "Is all okay back there?" My children nodded solemnly, eyes big and round and thumbs in their mouths. Turning back to resume the drive, I saw my sister slowly coming out from under the dashboard of the car. By turning sharply and then stepping on the brake once around the corner, I had dislodged her completely, folded her up like laundry, and neatly tucked her on the floor under the dash.

Dave was having an appendicitis attack. For one of very few times, he was in the passenger seat and I was his Florence Nightingale rushing him to the hospital. I was frightened. This was a mercy run to save the light of my life, my lover, my friend, my husband. We were no longer driving a standard transmission but I put the car in gear, gave it the gas, and simultaneously stomped on the brake with my left foot to clutch. Dave was wearing a seat belt, but I increased the length of his neck that day as his head was the only part of him that could fly forward faster than the speed of sound. I'm glad it was that fast as I couldn't hear what he was yelling at me.

While driving Helen to a meeting one late autumn morning after an early snowfall, I hit a patch of ice and spun 360 degrees, coming out of the spin in the correct direction and able to make my left turn and continue our journey. I was about to exclaim in glee that I handled it right and it was fun! I saw the stony expression on her face, the murderous dark eyes, the body posture that said I was in real danger and kept quiet. When we arrived at our destination (pre cell phones) I came inside to use the phone. I called home. Dave answered and I asked to speak with Marc who was just beginning drivers' ed. He came to the phone and I asked him if Dad had hung up. When he affirmed it was just us on the phone, I said, "Hey! The car skidded and I did a cookie! It was fun!" He enthused with me and was glad everything was OK. It was only in later years he admitted he hung up the phone and got down on his hands and knees and kissed the ground because he was not with me. Humph!

Another part to my driving is that I have no sense of direction. I get lost easily and often; sometimes I get lost three or four times in one trip. I am in my own neighborhood and just misplace the targeted turns and destinations. It could happen to anyone. Helen and Marc grew up knowing they had to know the route and get me back on the path toward Dot's, or home, or school. Having our grandchildren so close and being their daycare for many years meant they too received the pleasure of riding with Grammy. Now, of course, there are car seats, belts to gird the world, and safety harness things to keep children protected and safe. I have learned to make proper turns, pay attention to whether I am at a light or sign (most of the time), and keep the speed limit.

I wanted to treat the girls to a trip to the apple orchard. We were all safely in our seats and off for an adventure. I used the back roads to stay off the freeways. I was enjoying the day and their chatter from the back seat. They were ages five and three. The sky was a vivid autumn blue, the leaves were in full nature's paint, and the air was crisp and nice. As I neared the turn off to the orchard, I said softly, "Hmm. I do believe I am getting close to my turn." From the back seat Bett said in a frustrated voice, "You brought us all the way out here and you don't even know where you are going?" I assured her I knew but needed to locate my turn. There was grave doubt until the orchard was actually in sight. Sometime later when Belle had reached the age of six or seven, Helen, Bett, Belle and I were spending the day having fun together. We had done some shopping, had lunch, and were looking for a particular pet store to buy some fish for Dave's (Bacca to the girls) aquarium. I had made wrong turns, pulled into store parking lots to correct, made more wrong turns, driving around the block to get back to where we belonged. We had passed the pet store several times and then we gave it up as not being able to be found. Bett had known where it was all along, but had not said anything because she thought Helen and I must be able  to see it. On our way home, I was on the correct road. I arrived at a stop light, pulled into the right turn lane and came to a stop. Green was the light when I made my right turn and headed west away from home. Helen asked where I was going. Ever defensive about people picking on my driving, I said, "The light was green when I turned." Helen replied she knew that but why had I turned. It was then I realized I had left the road for home as was now driving toward points west. Belle's voice shaky and holding back tears said, "Grammy, can I ask you a question?" Looking for a place to once again turn the vehicle, I said, "Of course, Honey, you can ask me anything!" Taking a deep breath to steady her voice she said, "Just how crazy are you?" Another generation of hesitant passengers in my car. I hope to live and impress a fourth generation!

When we had our Crown Victoria, the rear-view mirror had a compass that lit up in one corner of it. Helen and the girls and I had been to Como Zoo for a picnic and visit the animals. Leaving the zoo, Helen and I had several discussions of which way was home. Bett age 7 queried, "Why does your mirror have my initial in it?" With blank expression I looked at the mirror which was indicating "east" and clearly not the "north" I needed for homeward travel. Out of the mouths of babes! I never thought to look at the compass. On the trip mentioned in the above paragraph, I was driving our Toyota which has GPS. If I am using the audio direction (lovingly referred to as "that annoying lady" by Bett and Belle or "Lola" by Dave and me) I pay attention and follow the directions. If not using the audio, I forget to look at the map that is ever present with me. Coulda had a V8!

While I am drawn toward very large machinery, I have the common sense to know I should never try to operate any. I sat in the cab of one of those wonderful snow plows at the State Fair one year. I was allowed to touch the steering wheel and the levers that controlled the sand spreader; front, side, and underneath plow blades; and the dumper. The state employee talking about the truck was impressed with what I knew about the lifts and hydraulics but he kept tight hold on the keys. I wonder if while I was in line to sit in the truck my family was giving him an earful. No. I'm sure he wouldn't have believed them anyway. I love HMV's the original big bad boys! The two and threes that were produced later are just another Jeep in my eyes. Someone offered to arrange for me have a test drive. The "NO!" that was bellowed from my entire family was deafening. But! If I owned one, well I would have painted on all sides of it, "Drive nice and don't make me lose my temper!"

I don't like rude drivers, angry drivers, or drivers that try to push others around. While I know that there are times I should have looked in the rear view mirror to see the carnage I was leaving behind me, I try to be cautious, use the road rules wisely, and signal my intentions. I try not to get into road contests and to ignore those trying to irritate with sign language. There was one shining moment, when a driver had been cutting off every driver in sight, weaving in and out with recklessness, and almost colliding with a semi driver. Semi driver number one, pulled up even with a second semi driver and they were each in an outside lane leaving the middle lane open. I realized they were hoping to keep Mr. Reckless from getting in front of them. I pulled our van into the middle spot. I got a thumbs up from both semi drivers and we all dropped to the minimum speed limit. Mr. Reckless was forced to behave. Just me and my trucker buddies. Yup. Another signal and the little lady was allowed to speed up and pull to the right lane ahead of semi dude number one. Mr. Reckless went through the middle at a pretty sedate pace. He had learned a lesson for at least as long as he was in reach of the "Little Lady's Gtd the Middle" band.

I at one time had a little beater of a car good only for short jaunts and to relieve the stress on the family car. Once in awhile, the tube from the washer fluid bottle to the wiper would come loose. It was easy to attach back onto the wiper blade, and I didn't often drive it in rainy or snowy weather. A gentleman (loosely used term) was driving rather erratically and annoyed with everyone on the road but himself. I had not started at the green light fast enough for him (he didn't know I have to be extra cautious about that) so he showed me the pride he has in how well his horn works. At the next light, he was able to pull up along side me in the right lane. He started making all sorts of motions and rolled down his window indicating I should roll mine down so he could yell at me. I wanted to show him just how little I was concerned with his gyrations so I reached over, pushed the button to clean my windshield, and then marveled at my timing. The hose came off the wiper blade and a fine stream of washer fluid shot in a an amazing arc straight into his open window. The light turned green and I went! He didn't start immediately and I heard a car horn. I laughed all the way home. There is justice in this life sometimes.

I hope by now you have laughed. I bet if you are honest you have some stories of your own. The difference between us is God has gifted me with laughter and I can laugh even when the joke is on me. I don't play practical jokes. I don't have to. Laughter abounds. While I rely on God to see me safely through my travels and to protect those who have to drive in close proximity to me, I am glad He has given me the ability to exaggerate enough to brighten others' days. Do you want me to post a schedule of my driving times and routes? When I was Helen's primary chauffeur to her chemo treatments, I would ask people to pray for safe travel to and from as well as for Helen's peace of mind. They would laugh and I would promise to tell them why I was serious. And so I have.