The Women Drivers of My Family

The Women Drivers of My Family

When I was a child I remember being aware there was a vast difference between my mother's driving and my father's. My father would shift the gears in smooth and timely manner. My mom would stomp the clutch to the floorboard, count to five then shift into whichever gear she could manage to get it in apparently. At least I can remember the car jumping and sputtering for a few moments. Those column shifters could be tricky! I knew one of two things would happen at a stoplight, the car would either die from lack of gas or we would lay rubber for half a block. Heaven help us if she had to start on an incline!

Going into the city posed another problem, parallel parking! The terror she faced every time. I would watch out the window as she passed spot after spot that I knew my dad would pull into and wonder why she didn't. I learned not to ask! "Why don't we park..." Whack! Whack! Whack! "Don't break my concentration!" We would go round and round the block, people would begin to wave at us like we were old friends. She would finally give up and try to parallel park. That's when the real fun would begin. You could tell who owned which cars by the look of horror on the men's faces, as they stood frozen in place on the sidewalk. She never actually hit any of their cars, but she certainly took 10 years off their life!

I had never had the opportunity to ride with my grandma. Oh I had heard the rumors, the tales of horror from the other grandkids, but how could she possibly be as bad as my mom? One evening I happened to be there when she mentioned she had to take two other granddaughters home. Everybody broke and ran, I got fowled at the starting gate, someone tripped me, and I got elected to ride along. Everything went smooth until we got on the main highway. The county had brushhogged along the side of the road recently. We were going around 40 to 45 mph when the car started jumping and lurching. This was before seatbelts and our heads bumped the ceiling in the car it was bumping so badly. I'll never forget my grandmother gripping the steering wheel, with a look of determination on her face. Finally she yells, "When are they going to fix these damned roads!" We girls just hid in the backseat and giggled, granny was driving on the dirt shoulder, running over tree stubs and large rocks. Of course none of us spoke up.

I learned to drive when I was 14. I got my permit at 15 and my license at 16. I was the "Little Goody Two Shoes" of driving. I obeyed every law, did not speed, and counted to at least 3 at stop signs. It drove my friends crazy.

One night at the drive-in we had gotten hold of some cherry vodka. My boyfriend and his best friend got swaked! They were fall-down drunk! Fortunately I did not drink that night, so I was able to drive my boyfriend's car home. He had a 1965 Buick Skylark Grand Sport Coupe, with a 400something engine and four speed on the floor. Being young and a blonde I would get flirted with a lot. Every stoplight a guy would rev his engine, and challenge me to a race. Not Little Goody Two Shoes!, nope, I obeyed the laws. My boyfriend and his buddy were dying! How could I let his car get beat without answering the challenge! Finally I had had enough. The next light,... the challenge,... the motors revving, ...and the stare! The light changed, I dumped the clutch floored it, and smoked his ass! A new person was born that night, Little Goody Two Shoes was no more! I raced and beat every challenger. When we were almost home and the guys had gotten out of the floorboard, I shocked them by turning the car around, going back into the city and challenging anyone who would race. My boyfriend said he wasn't nervous until he happened to notice the telephone poles looked like a picket fence we were blowing by so fast.

I got older, got married, and my racing days were over mostly. I did still get goaded into a race now and again.

As time goes by roles change and there came a day when I was driving my mom into the city. She was a bad driver, but a worse passenger. She would constantly yell "Whoop, whoop!" snap her fingers and stomp her nonexistent brake. If there were 3 people in the car she would sit in the back seat, in the middle to make sure the car was more balanced. She would tell me just because the speed limit was 70, I was not obligated to drive 70 (I didn't, I drove 80). She would tell me where and how to park. I was driving her into the city to visit my dad who had been injured and was in the hospital. It was a 30-mile trip and split between highway and city driving. As soon as we left our small town and got on the highway she told me to drive in the left lane, there was construction ahead. I had just driven this road and couldn't think of any construction. She insisted so I humored her. We entered the highway from 155^th street, at 38^th street I finally ran into the construction. Good thing I was in the left lane!

My daughter grew to the age of driving. Suddenly I was cast into the role of the village idiot. I no longer was as qualified to drive. I did find out an important bit of information, if you gave birth to it, you don't want to have it chauffeur for you. I admit, I screamed a few times, no whoop, whoop or finger snapping, blood curdling screams. We have finally settled into a routine, I look out the window so she can't see my face and try to hide my white-knuckled grip on the door handle! We get along fine!

My x-husband came to town for a visit and she offered to drive him the 50 miles to my son's house. He looked wide-eyed at me and I just smiled and motioned him toward the door. As they left I heard her say "First rule, No screaming." I just closed the door and chuckled, life was good!