Cautiously, I started to pass the large, slow-moving two-tone brown ’76 Buick LeSabre I’d been following for several minutes. The car with no visible driver. The one that couldn’t quite decide if it was in the right lane or the left lane.
I knew what I’d see when I pulled alongside the old Buick. Two small hands gripping the steering wheel at 10 and 2, a tightly permed white-haired head peering just barely over the giant steering wheel, eyes straight ahead.
It was a poignant moment for me. I could place myself, as a child in the passenger seat, excitedly riding with my grandmother to the washateria that was next to the S&H Green Stamp store.
But I just as easily placed myself in the driver’s seat, driving the same route I’d driven for 40 years in the same car, but anxious about all the new traffic and pedestrians and bicycles and construction. Everyone so impatient. Feeling like a nuisance.
I was reminded of one of my elderly clients, Charles. Charles came in to my office to “make some changes to his Will.” Again.
Charles was stooped and each step was painful and slow, but he was determined. Even with his thick bifocals, Charles could barely read the paper he held right up to his nose.
“Shall I call you a cab?” I asked when he finished signing. “Don’t need a cab – my car’s out front.”
Did someone drive you here? No, I can drive myself. But, how, Charles, how? You can barely see.
Well, I open the car door just enough so I can look down and see the white lines on the road and that keeps me going straight. Been getting around that way for years.
vivinolavita 