The automobile drivers in my community are polite, conscientious folk who frequently drive their Subarus and Priuses below the speed limit, let multiple other cars cut in front of them at a highway turn off, and slow rather than accelerate when the traffic light is yellow, to make sure all the cars will be out of the intersection when a light turns red. I was at a four-way stop the other day in another of our local rituals: the foregoing of the rules of right-of-way so that each driver can politely offer each other the option to proceed before them. “Go ahead,” they seem to say, as they look unhurriedly from one driver to another. “No, no, you go,” another one waves and smiles. “No, that’s OK. You go.” I had my usual response to being in a motionless vehicle, which was to mutter under my breath and wish for the glory days when people would drive like my Grandma used to.
Automotive Artist Etienne Carignan - ClassicCarGift.com
This was the Golden Age of Grandchildren, when family members were together in person rather than meeting up on Skype. When I basked in the generosity of endless grandparental love, affection, and time. They gave me everything a grandchild could want, and nothing I needed (that they left for my parents). Newly minted coins and fresh-off-the-press crisp $2 bills that are still unfolded and pristine. When I was older they gave me some small pieces of jewelry, and even, that Pontiac LeMans. I didn’t need a car; I didn’t go anywhere other than high school, for which I took a bus. My parents tried in vain to stop the transfer of an unneeded sporty car, concerned a gift of that magnitude would spoil me beyond repair. My Grandmother prevailed. The car was a great gift. But the way my grandparents delighted in me is the gift I can still feel.
I am a zippy driver, too, although with the exception of a burgundy Mazda MX-6 – with a sunroof and a spoiler! – that I had for a brief stint in my early 30’s, I’ve never had a car as sporty as that LeMans. I drive with the tacit understanding of my fellow urban drivers: everyone has someplace very important to go, and that the best way to get there is to drive quickly, efficiently, purposely, instinctively, and decisively, and that everyone’s speed and efficiency is required to help all drivers achieve their goal of quick travel. The faster I drive, the faster you get to your destination. And since we share the urgency of our over-inflated importance, we believe we can’t possibly be late. We have high level responsibilities, and our time frame is tight. Urban drivers have very little time to spare in-between one very important task and the next. We don’t have time for pure courtesy behind the wheel, nor do we feel particularly guilty for eschewing the theoretical environmental boost from slowing down just a bit. I’m pretty sure that 4 cars idling at 4-way stop for minutes on end counteracts all the below-speed-limit ecological benefits of slowing down.
I don’t know about you, but I have to get to gym to get a quick work-out before having to get breakfast on the table so we can get our son to school on time and then me to my office on time. Then I have to leave work and pick my son up, get him to Karate lessons and while he’s there start dinner and get to the market to get the elusive final ingredients for the recipe I downloaded this morning. I frequently have to be at his school for assemblies and various volunteering efforts, and in the evenings for the annual Science Fairs and music concerts. Tonight, in fact, I have to be at the Back-to-School Bash by 5:30 p.m. This is what I mean by having important things to do.
My Grandmother was a good driver, and she was polite, kind and conscientious. But she preferred to speed. Who knows? Maybe she dawdled and obeyed the speed limit when heading to the grocery store or bank; stopped to let others in on the way to the hairdresser. Maybe she only sped down our street, to get to our house as fast as she could. Maybe we were her priority, and spending time with us created the urgency and importance to lean just a bit harder on the gas pedal. I bet I drive just like Grandma, zooming to be with the ones I love, upholding the legacy of 1970 fire-engine red Pontiac LeMans.
I’ve got plenty of time to ponder this, and next time when I’m parked at a 4-way stop, I’ll send a quick “Miss you, Grandma” out to the universe. It’ll reach her in record time.
Photo courtesy of Marcel Haan, ClassicCarGift.com