My Grandfather's Car
Like most parents, I spend a great deal of time shuttling my kids from one exciting event to the next. So much time in fact that it often seems as if the purchase of a chauffeur’s cap might be in order. Although, I’m guessing most chauffeurs do not drive a seven year old Toyota truck. But this one does and the truck is always ready to go. And go we do, to baseball practice, to the football game, or the party at Brian’s house, my trusty old truck delivers the kids to their next adventure. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
It was different when I was young. Getting a ride in those days was a big deal. Of course, we didn’t have anywhere near the amount of activities to attend and when there was an actual event that required our presence we could often walk. But every once in awhile there were places we couldn’t get to without a ride and that’s where my grandfather (otherwise known as the option of last resort) came in.
He was a practical man and drove what was in his mind a practical car, while in my mind it was a rolling source of anxiety. Built by Plymouth in an ugly shade of brown that hasn’t been used on a car since and long enough that the front end had a different zip code from the rear, this was quite possibly the least stylish sedan ever to hit the pavement. It’s also fair to say “sedan” in this case could also have been spelled T-A-N-K. Besides being practical the car was also ultra safe. So safe that if the vaunted Hummer were around in the early 70’s, a collision between the two would have resulted with perhaps a scratch on the Plymouth and certain destruction for the Hummer.
By the time I was in my early teens my grandfather had retired and although he had plenty of time to cruise around in his giant Plymouth, he seemed to have no place he wanted to go. As a result the behemoth sat lurking in the driveway awaiting a destination.
So it was that my best friend Rob and I sometimes provided that destination. Looking back I suppose the “tank” quality of the Plymouth was a good thing as we never wore seatbelts in those days. There were no laws about that yet (Connecticut wouldn’t even allow turning right on red until 1975). The two of us sat in the cavernous back seat, sliding to and fro, finding humor in everything and anything. Often the humor came from my grandfather’s increasing inability to remember the route to our destination and his somewhat questionable driving skills. Of course we would no doubt have been impervious to injury in the Plymouth had any sort of collision occurred but thankfully we were never in an accident, although I do remember a couple of close calls. I attributed these lapses in driving ability to old age but the fact was although we didn’t know it yet, my grandfather was in the early stages of Alzheimer’s.
Soon the experience proved to be more embarrassing than humorous and ultimately I dreaded asking for a ride in the Plymouth. It was the increasingly adventurous nature of these trips that caused us to bestow “last resort” status on him and his Plymouth and eventually, when even simple trips became potential demolition derbies, it was decided that perhaps it was time for my grandfather to give up driving. Surprisingly, when my grandmother suggested to him that he no longer drive, my grandfather readily agreed.
Life went on. Unfortunately, my grandmother was one of only two people I’ve encountered during my lifetime that never learned to drive (Ironically the other one lives in car happy Los Angeles). Although it wasn’t easy somehow Rob and I managed to find other ways to get around while the Plymouth continued to sit gathering both dust and rust waiting for someone to pilot it.
Around the time of my sixteenth birthday my grandmother asked, almost as an aside, kind of just in passing, a simple seemingly innocuous question. “What” she asked, “did I think about my grandfather’s car?” Unfortunately I responded that it was a car I would never have bought. “It’s too big” I said. I left out my thoughts on its disturbing yet unique color. And that was that. I went about my business, my grandmother went about hers, and the Plymouth languished in the driveway.
Eventually the Plymouth was gone having been either sold or donated. Years (and I mean a lot of years) later the Plymouth somehow became the topic of conversation at a family gathering. “It was a shame that car sat around unused for so long” I said. “We asked if you wanted that car” said my grandmother, “and you didn’t want it.” It took awhile for me to realize that “what do you think about your grandfather’s car?” was secret family code for “would you like to have your grandfather’s car?” When I did, I immediately tried to explain the merits of direct communication to the family. I further explained that while I wouldn’t have purchased the Plymouth (or any other Plymouth for that matter), like any teenager I would have happily accepted and driven what amounted to a free car. Unfortunately, it was just not meant to be.
Meanwhile, back in the present, I’m happy to report no one in my house seems to dread asking for a ride in the Toyota. And because I want to keep it that way, I do my best to get them to their respective appointments with little or no adventure. I will admit though that with my eldest son approaching his sixteenth birthday, I’m sometimes tempted to ask, just for fun of course, “what does he think about my truck?”