This is the pod that transported my Mom and Dad around the planet for over ten years.
In the process, there was a managerial change in which one of them was the chief pilot. A stroke for my Dad took away his ability to drive. No, actually, a physician did, but the stroke was the impetus for the doctor to deem my father unfit to drive safely.
Being a duly sworn advisor to my Old Man, I went along with it. Deeply knowing it was best, but deeper knowing that he could easily still drive back and forth to Dunkin Donuts to get a fresh, hot decaf, regular.
That’s all he wanted, just some freedom from the chair. He simply wanted to meet Jim, his curmudgeonly pal, for a coffee.
By the way, Jimmy passed away a couple of weeks ago, so I suspect Dad and Jim are motoring around the streets of gold looking for an open Dunkin where the staff understands that the decaf should be fresh and hot, or they are not taking it. Jim might say, “Please make another pot.”
RIP Jim, make the Old Man buy the next cup.
Dad would discuss his frustrations with me at inopportune times, confiding that he could easily drive, but the authorities at the Department of Motor Vehicles did not answer his inquiries for a retest.
I had to disagree on the outside, but agree with him on the inside. I owed that to the entire family. However, in “man-to-man” conversations(my Old Man would recite that important statement to me when he wanted me to know that this was just the boys talking), he’d share some really valid arguments.
Man-to-man was a verbal secret handshake for my father. Things we don’t speak of to the ladies, in essence. He didn’t want Mama to know he was trying to manipulate me to drive to Augusta to demand they reinstate his inherent right to drive, at least for coffee.
I observed Arthur wheel the car around in the driveway while I worked on snow removal, or while he was waiting for my mother to come and drive him somewhere. Dad could back the Honda right up to the power pole that was poorly placed within the dooryard of the Cotton Compound, getting within a half-inch of bumping, but never doing so. There is no backup camera in that Honda, so my father never knew the luxury of being able to see what he might hit while in reverse.
He was still a good driver, and other than a few little nuances, you’d never have known he’d had a stroke a few years before.
Yes, I would toe the party line, even though, down deep, I was always aligned and a registered member in the POA (Party of Art).
My mother took over at that time, forced to be the Old Man’s chauffeur, which is a tough duty; Dad could be relentless in the sharing of knowledge regarding the best way to get there. He knew shortcuts within other shortcuts and wasn’t shy about providing that information to my Mama.
I am convinced that the freedom to navigate with abandon took my father home to his heavenly box seat far earlier than needed. He wanted to be on the move. If he couldn’t, on his own, there wasn’t any place he’d rather be static, forced to sit still, than Heaven.
That’s all I thought about over the last week while the car sat in my yard, or spent time at Sammy’s house, my mechanic, getting it ready for sale.
Mama’s not driving anymore. Plus, she’s islandbound at my sister’s place. There’s nowhere she needs to drive, and if there were, she’d have to navigate the ferry ride to the mainland. My sister makes sure she gets to all her appointments, now taking the role my Mama did when she had Art beeping the horn to the Fit because they might be late for something. They never were. Never.
I vacuumed, washed, and polished the Honda yesterday. It shines up fairly well. It’s been to a lot of places, probably including several hundred miles in the drive-thru lane of Dunkin Donuts in Hampden, Bangor, Brewer, and Ellsworth.
There are echoes within the sparse interior. I could hear their voices over the shop vac, Dad telling my Mama to ask if the decaf was fresh. Her just ordering it without utilizing his requested verbiage.
Him saying, “Carol, you should have checked. I don’t want stale decaf!”
If it wasn’t fresh, it would do; Mama was raised by parents who survived the depression; old coffee is fine.
I’ve been advised numerous times to avoid making the connections between inanimate objects and the people who owned them, but I can’t help it.
For a few minutes, I wanted to buy the car from my Mama. Just to keep it around. Just to drive it to Dunkin for a decaf. I don’t drink decaf, but I could. I really could.
I backed it into a space in the driveway, clean and shining, all the salt and pepper packages removed from my Mama’s stash.
I almost drove off the edge of the asphalt, being so accustomed to using back-up cameras rather than pure instinct, now.
I’ll never be half the driver my Dad was. I’d tell him that now, man-to-man, if I had the chance. I should’ve let me drive me to Augusta with Jim to present them to the staff of DMV just to watch the show.
From the Jagged Edge of America, I remain,
TC
*Just to nip the advice in the bud, I know that the way I capitalize my parents’ nicknames and official titles doesn’t fit the criteria from the Chicago Manual of Style—I’ve received notes from vehement grammarians, trying to be helpful. That’s how I choose to write those titles, and I will continue to do so. Enjoy your day; find someone else to torment. tc*
*And yes, that is a partial case of my new book being used for a table. I keep the box in the garage so I can grab a copy to keep in the truck when I root around, looking for fresh coffee. It saves me from running all the way back into the house*
Thanks to my BuyMeACoffee Donors; you keep me running. I thank you all. TC