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No left turns

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delalluvia:

A friend sent me this.  So I thought I'd share:


This is a wonderful piece by Michael Gartner, editor of newspapers large and small and president of NBC News. In 1997, he won the Pulitzer Prize for editorial writing.
 
 My father never drove a car. Well, that's not quite right. I should say I never saw him drive a car. He quit driving in 1927, when he was 25 years old, and the last car he drove was a 1926 Whippet.

"In those days," he told me when he was in his 90s, "to drive a car you had to do things with your hands, and do things with your feet, and look every which way, and I decided you could walk through life and enjoy it or drive through life and miss it."

At which point my mother, a sometimes salty Irish woman, chimed in: "Oh, bull----!" she said. "He hit a horse."

"Well," my father said, "there was that, too."

So my brother and I grew up in a household without a car. The neighbors all had cars -- the Kollingses next door had a green 1941 Dodge, the Van Laninghams across the street a gray 1936 Plymouth, the Hopsons two doors down a black 1941 Ford -- but we had none.

My father, a newspaperman in Des Moines , would take the streetcar to work and, often as not, walk the 3 miles home.  If he took the streetcar home, my mother and brother and I would walk the three blocks to the streetcar stop, meet him and walk home together.

My brother, David, was born in 1935, and I was born in 1938, and
sometimes, at dinner, we'd ask how come all the neighbors had cars but we had none. "No one in the family drives," my mother would explain, and that was that. But, sometimes, my father would say, "But as soon as one of you boys turns 16, we'll get one."  It was as if he wasn't sure which one of us would turn 16 first. But, sure enough, my brother turned 16 before I did, so in 1951 my parents bought a used 1950 Chevrolet from a friend who ran the parts department at a Chevy dealership downtown. It was a four-door, white model, stick shift, fender skirts, loaded with everything, and, since my parents didn't drive, it more or less became my brother's car.

Having a car but not being able to drive didn't bother my father, but it didn't make sense to my mother. So in 1952, when she was 43 years old, she asked a friend to teach her to drive. She learned in a nearby cemetery, the place where I learned to drive the following year and where, and a generation later, I took my two sons to practice driving. The cemetery probably was my father's idea. "Who can your mother hurt in the  cemetery?" I remember him saying once.

For the next 45 years or so, until she was 90, my mother was the driver in the family. Neither she nor my father had any sense of direction, but he loaded up on maps -- though they seldom left the city limits -- and appointed himself navigator. It seemed to work.

Still, they both continued to walk a lot. My mother was a devout
Catholic, and my father an equally devout agnostic, an arrangement that didn't seem to bother either of them through their 75 years of marriage. (Yes, 75 years, and they were deeply in love the entire time.) ; He retired when he was 70, and nearly every morning for the next 20 years or so, he would walk with her the mile to St. Augustin's Church. She would walk down and sit in the front pew, and he would wait in the back until he saw which of the parish's two priests was on duty that morning.
If it was the pastor, my father then would go out and take a 2-mile walk, meeting my mother at the end of the service and walking her home. If it was the assistant pastor, he'd take just a 1-mile walk and then head back to the church. He called the priests "Father Fast" and "Father Slow."

After he retired, my father almost always accompanied my mother whenever she drove anywhere, even if he had no reason to go along. If she were going to the beauty parlor, he'd sit in the car and read, or go take a stroll or, if it was summer, have her keep the engine running so he could listen to the Cubs game on the radio.

In the evening, then, when I'd stop by, he'd explain: "The Cubs lost again. The millionaire on second base made a bad throw to the millionaire on first base, so the multimillionaire on third base scored."

If she were going to the grocery store, he would go along to carry the bags out -- and to make sure she loaded up on ice cream.

As I said, he was always the navigator, and once, when he was 95 and she was 88 and still driving, he said to me, "Do you want to know the secret of a long life?"

"I guess so," I said, knowing it probably would be something bizarre.

"No left turns," he said. "What?" I asked.

"No left turns," he repeated. "Several years ago, your mother and I read an article that said most accidents that old people are in happen when they turn left in front of oncoming traffic. As you get older, your eyesight worsens, and you can lose your depth perception, it said. So your mother and I decided never again to make a left turn."

"What?" I said again.

"No left turns," he said. "Think about it. Three rights are the same as a left, and tha t's a lot safer. So we always make three rights."

"You're kidding!" I said, and I turned to my mother for support.

"No," she said, "your father is right. We make three rights. It works." But then she added: "Except when your father loses count."

I was driving at the time, and I almost drove off the road as I started laughing. "Loses count?" I asked. "Yes," my father admitted, "that sometimes happens. But it's not a problem. You just make seven rights,
and you're okay again."

I couldn't resist. "Do you ever go for 11?" I asked.

"No," he said. "If we miss it at seven, we just come home and call it a bad day. Besides, nothing in life is so important it can't be put off another day or another week."

My mother was never in an accident, but one evening she handed me her car keys and said she had decided to quit driving. That was in 1999, when she was 90. She lived four more years, until 2003. My father died the next year, at 102. They both died in the bungalow they had moved into in 1937 and bought a few years later for $3,000. (Sixty years later), my brother and I paid $8,000 to have a shower put in the tiny
bathroom -- the house had never had one. My father would have died then and there if he knew the shower cost nearly three times what he paid for the house.)

He continued to walk daily -- he had me get him a treadmill when he was 101 because he was afraid he'd fall on the icy sidewalks but wanted to keep exercising -- and he was of sound mind and sound body until the moment he died.

One September afternoon in 2004, he and my son went with me when I had to give a talk in a neighboring town, and it was clear to all three of us that he was wearing out, though we had the usual wide-ranging conversation about politics and newspapers and things in the news. A few weeks earlier, he had told my son, "You know, Mike, the first hundred years are a lot easier than the second hundred." At one point in our drive that Saturday, he said, "You know, I'm probably not going to live much longer."

"You're probably right," I said.

"Why would you say that?" He countered, somewhat irritated.

"Because you're 102 years old," I said.

"Yes," he said, "you're right." He stayed in bed all the next day.

That night, I suggested to my son and daughter that we sit up with him through the night. He appreciated it, he said, though at one point, apparently seeing us look gloomy, he said: "I would like to make an announcement. No one in this room is dead yet."

An hour or so later, he spoke his last words: "I want you to know," he said, clearly and lucidly, "that I am in no pain. I am very comfortable.  And I have had as happy a life as anyone on this earth could ever have." A short time later, he died.

I miss him a lot, and I think about him a lot. I've wondered now and then how it was that my family and I were so lucky that he lived so long.

I can't figure out if it was because he walked through life

Or because he quit taking left turns.

 

Ellemeno:
Ah Bud, thanks for this.  I love laughing and crying at the same time.  :)

chefjudy:
 :)  what a great story!! very well written too!  sounds a little like O. Henry :D

           thanks for bringing it to us!!           

David:
Great story.  Thanks for sharing that.  Of course I'm crying now!



Reminds me of my own Dad.    My Dad was born in 1926.    So he was a depression era child.    Not many people in his part of Hartford even had cars then.    Most used the Trolley cars to get around.      But my Grandmother did have an old beat up car.    When he was a teen,  he and his younger brother would wait for my grand mother to fall asleep, then they'd roll her car down the driveway, then down the street popping the clutch to start it.

Dad was never a "car guy"   He never had a new or flashy car.   In fact, for the first 3 years of marriage, he and my mom didn't even have a car.  They'd borrow my aunts car to take a trip to the beach.    She had a rusty 1957 Chevy convertible.   My dad drove it to the junkyard one day because it was old and junky he said.    Today a restored 1957 Chevy convertible sells for $85,000.00

My dad would always buy a plain car.  Usually a left over demonstrator.  The less options they better.   Price was his only consideration.   He was a true blue Yankee.    And the Yankee motto is: "Use it up, wear it out.  Make it do or do without."      If the car was making strange noises, he'd turn up the AM radio to drown them out.    "I'll take it to the garage when it breaks down" he used to say.       I'd ask:"Dad, why doesn't our car have Air conditioning?"     He always reply :"The more options you have the more that need fixing"    For years I thought Plymouth and Ford were the only cars made.     The big family vacation was always a road trip to the beach.   For the day.      My brother and I used to look longingly at the passing cars with their windows rolled up tight on the hottest days.   We knew they had air conditioning.   Lucky stiffs.

My Dad was a liberal democrat and wore his heart on his sleeve.    He got a Christmas bonus one year after WWII and on his way home, stopped at the railroad freight yard, walked over to the hobos there and gave all the money to them.   "They needed the money more than I did.  And I wasn't even expecting to get it" he said.     That was my Dad.    All he wanted was a days pay for a days work.    If you were happy at your job, whether it was CEO or garbageman, you were sucessful in his eyes.   

My parents were often perplexed by my love for huge luxury automobiles.    I guess I always looked longingly at them as they drove by.     I did buy many used Cadillacs over time.   Plus I had several brand new ones as company cars.   My dad never once desired to drive one.   My Mom however fell in love with a brand new Black Sedan DeVille I brought home.     She drove it around the block.      The only time my Dad ever asked t odrive one of my cars was when I brought home a new Chevy Camaro.   His eyes lit up.  "Oh that is a nice car.  I'll bet it is fast" he said.   "Want to take it around the block?"   He smiled and took the keys from my hand.     That was the only time.   

My Mom and Dad always shared one car.   I got them a 1985 Plymouth Reliant once.   It was their first car with Air conditioning.  Imagine that.    To them it was a Cadillac.    I was just promoted and given a company car, so I gave my Dad my old Chrysler NewYorker to drive.  He refused.   But I told him it was only so Mom could drive the Plymouth to her work.  He agreed, saying that she could never handle such a large car.      My Mom said he was terrified he'd wreck it.   But he did like driving it to work.

My Dad retired at 62.   He decided that he was old.   In his youth, people died by the time they were 65, so he figured it was time to stop working and enjoy his Social security check.       Mom was 53, so she kept working.     Dad had a new Chevy Prizm and a new hobby.  Driving.   He drove everyday.  Sometimes to Vermont just to have lunch.     Mom never understood why the car always needed gas.   LOL.    When the Gulf War was over in 1992 he drove to the Airport everyday to welcome the troops home.   Dad was a decorated Navy and Marine veteran.     

My Dad never turned down a ride with me.    He'd gladly go anywhere.  Even if it was nowhere special.   Every road led somewhere he said.   If we came to an intersection, he'd always point to the road not taken before.  "Let's see where that goes" he say.    We'd often be home late for dinner because of it.       When Dad was in his 70s he was in poor health.    I remember driving over to do some yardwork for him one fall day.   The leaves were brilliant in color.   I had my 1961 Plymouth Fury wagon with me.   "Want to go for a spin and look at the leaves Dad?"   "No" he replied.   "I think I'll stay around the house today."     I drove home thinking : Gee Dad is slowing down.  I wonder how much time I'll get with him?

I was on the phone later that night with a friend when the Operator cut into the call.   "You have an important message from your mother" the Operator said.    My heart sank.   "Dad is on the way to the Hospital" she said.    I got there in time to see him in the Emergency room.   The doctors told us he was stable but very weak and they needed to keep him over night.   He had been passing blood for the past two days and didn't say anything to anyone.      Finally my mom found in bed with his best suit and shoes on the floor next to him.    He wanted to die in his bed at home, but then decided he wasn't ready to go yet. 

I gave my Dad a big hug and kiss and Told him I'd be back at dawn, as the Emergency room staff was moving him to the ICU.  It was about 1 AM then.
With a tear in his eyes he told me that he loved me and that he was so proud to have me as a son.  He joked, "If I knew I was going to live this long I'd have taken better care of myself".     Dad had a massive stroke a few hours later.     

I still will take a ride in the countryside myself.   I often feel that my Dad is riding along with me.

Ellemeno:
David, you should send this to your mom.  It's beautiful.

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