Recently, I overheard a friend telling someone that I don’t drive at night. This is not true. I drive at night. I just don’t love it. As a matter of fact, driving is not my favorite activity.
When I was 15-years-old, I learned to drive on the icy roads of South Dakota. It was either you skid or you miss. I never missed. South Dakota was the last State in the Union to require a driver’s license. Consequently, it wasn’t unusual to see young children, who were accustomed to operating farm equipment, driving cars down country roads. There wasn’t much traffic, and people didn’t drive too fast, so I enjoyed it---but not anymore.
I’ve been in three accidents in my life. A young man who was on his way to procure brakes for his car caused the first. Unfortunately, he tried to get wherever he was going by running a red light and crashing into the driver’s side of my car. He claimed it wasn’t his fault because, “How was I supposed to stop without brakes?” He went to jail.
The second accident was with a man who thought he was on his side of the road, and couldn’t figure out why I was coming right at him. He took several swigs from his whiskey bottle before the impact. He told the police, “I’m too drunk to get out of my truck.” They believed him. He went to jail.
An old lady who couldn’t tell the difference between her gas pedal and her brake pedal caused the third accident. “I guess I stepped on the wrong one,” was her defense. She didn’t go to jail, but had an “S” for “Stupid” tattooed on her forehead. Well, she should have!
Who, in his right mind, thinks rush hour in Los Angeles, New York or London is fun? Or, who thinks driving in Italy or Greece is anything but insane when people drive on sidewalks? There are some nutty drivers out there. I was almost hit by a flying taxi in New York City. The driver yelled at me in a foreign language called “Bronx.”
Atlanta is a city with three perimeter highways. A few years ago an Atlanta Braves player couldn’t find the exit to the ballpark. He never did make it to the game. As far as I know, he is still going around and around and around. He is probably an old man by now.
I was in Tijuana, Mexico when the electricity failed. Drivers sat on the clogged streets and honked their horns hoping that someone would move. The police didn’t seem to care, because they were busy arresting a street vendor who was caught stuffing his tacos with iguana meat.
On the plus side, cars are built much better than they used to be, and I tend to get attached to my old car and want to drive it forever. My feeling is, “When you have something old and reliable, why take a chance on something new?”
Years ago, my parents asked me to drive them somewhere in their brand new automobile. After driving a stretch of highway, I came to an abrupt stop in front of a telephone pole. I didn’t hit it, but slammed on my brakes. When my Dad exclaimed from the back seat, “What are you doing?” I pulled out the steering column, with the attached wheel, and handed it to him. I think that’s when I learned to say, “Next time, you drive.”
Esther Blumenfeld (“Everything in life is somewhere else, and you get there in a car.” E.B. White)