First, a vehicle
appears suddenly right on my tail, and, in the rear view mirror, I swear the
passenger is giving me the finger! Later, I pull into a parking lot, hungry for
a Subway lunch, and there’s a guy yelling at me, “Don’t you look both ways?”
Well, I guess not. Sorry, Charlie.
I’m a good driver,
really. Accident free so far, except for that one time on a summer job when I
borrowed the company car to run an errand downtown, and I parallel parked on
the lefthand side of a street with parking meters but no curb and…Crunch! Big
dent in the company car’s back door! So embarrassing.
I seem to remember
my mom being the one to teach me to drive, while on vacation between my
freshman and sophomore years in college, in Northport, Michigan, on miles of
empty roads among scrub pines and sand dunes. On a stick shift.
That was the summer
my father’s melanoma probably got its start, with all that sun exposure. My
behavior probably didn’t help his stress level either, caught as I was between
the independence of college and my parents’ need to keep things under control on
a home leave from Germany with four kids in tow. That was my summer to be a
complete bitch. I copped such an attitude that my dad threatened to put me out
of the car as we pulled up to a collection booth on the turnpike. It was also a
summer to play at being grown up, as family friends offered me a cocktail when
we visited them in New York City. Surprised and a little thrilled, I accepted a
Manhattan.
I didn’t really
take to the driver’s seat until after I was married. David’s uncle left a small
inheritance that enabled us to purchase a cute little powder blue Volkswagon
bug. $4,000 it cost us. I drove over hill and dale through the Ohio
countryside, David at my side, perfecting my skills, and got my first real
driver’s license. A real grown-up now!
We took the bug
with us to Hawaii when David got accepted for his masters work at the
University, and drove it around the island of Oahu every time we had visitors
from the mainland. I never tired of that circuit, taking in Hanauma Bay, Blow
Hole, Rabbit Island and the bodysurfing beach, the green-tinged volcanic cliffs
of the leeward side, the prime surfing spots of the North Shore, the pineapple stands
near Wahiawa, and Waipahu, home of Lippi Espinda’s used car lot to which Mr.
Espinda himself exhorted us on TV to “Helly on down.”
Then came the pale
green Toyota station wagon, brand spanking new when we left Hawaii, picked up
in LA, and driven to Pittsburgh, where Dave hoped to earn his PhD. Fast forward
to me driving the wagon to work years later and routinely having to lift the
hood and stick a screwdriver into the butterfly valve to get it started.
And then there was
the Green Machine, the Chevy station wagon that carted our family on
sundry vacations out east and west, the most adverse event occurring the time
we were all packed for a trip and ran over a pitchfork on the way out of the
garage, causing a lengthy delay to call AAA and get the tire repaired.
My first car of my
very own, establishing my own credit record, was my copper colored tin can, the
Toyota Corolla. I drove it to work every day, proud as punch. Punks threw rocks
at it one time when I passed through their neighborhood, and I lit out after
them yelling, at least that’s what I think I remember doing.
Then there was my
beloved rose grey Toyota Camry, the four-door I bought when I was a manager,
financially flush, for taking colleagues and clients to lunch. I loved that
car, and when it finally succumbed to old age, felt a surge of emotion on my
way to trading it in for the little forest green Honda Civic I have now. So
many cars, loved and taken care of and worn out, and all driven safely.
I try to behave
myself on the road. No major transgressions yet. But at 66 I wonder how long my
luck will hold out.
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