Life without cars
Feb 25, 2016 10:11:34 #
Going the e-mail rounds.
This is a story of an aging couple told by their son who was president
of NBC News.
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. It is well worth reading, and a
few good chuckles are guaranteed. Here goes...
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 Irishwoman, chimed in:
"Oh, bull s**t!" 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
1941Dodge, the VanLaninghams 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, 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 more than 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 that'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. "
Life is too short to wake up with regrets. So love the people who
treat you right. Forget about the ones who don't. Believe everything
happens for a reason. If you get a chance, take it & if it changes
your life, let it. Nobody said life would be easy, they just promised
it would most likely be worth it."
ENJOY LIFE NOW - IT HAS AN EXPIRATION DATE!
This is a story of an aging couple told by their son who was president
of NBC News.
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. It is well worth reading, and a
few good chuckles are guaranteed. Here goes...
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 Irishwoman, chimed in:
"Oh, bull s**t!" 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
1941Dodge, the VanLaninghams 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, 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 more than 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 that'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. "
Life is too short to wake up with regrets. So love the people who
treat you right. Forget about the ones who don't. Believe everything
happens for a reason. If you get a chance, take it & if it changes
your life, let it. Nobody said life would be easy, they just promised
it would most likely be worth it."
ENJOY LIFE NOW - IT HAS AN EXPIRATION DATE!
Feb 25, 2016 10:25:40 #
That was a great read. Thanks for posting. :thumbup: :thumbup:
Feb 25, 2016 10:31:31 #
Parrothead wrote:
That was a great read. Thanks for posting. :thumbup: :thumbup:
My pleasure PH. :mrgreen:
Feb 25, 2016 13:00:50 #
ConnorShields69
Loc: Here
The summation certainly is the "way of life"in my book.
"Life is too short to wake up with regrets. So love the people who
treat you right. Forget about the ones who don't. Believe everything
happens for a reason. If you get a chance, take it & if it changes
your life, let it. Nobody said life would be easy, they just promised
it would most likely be worth it."
Nice story, excellent finish. Something to live by while we can.
"Life is too short to wake up with regrets. So love the people who
treat you right. Forget about the ones who don't. Believe everything
happens for a reason. If you get a chance, take it & if it changes
your life, let it. Nobody said life would be easy, they just promised
it would most likely be worth it."
Nice story, excellent finish. Something to live by while we can.
Feb 25, 2016 13:13:17 #
oldroy
Loc: Western Kansas (No longer in hiding)
Elwood wrote:
My pleasure PH. :mrgreen:
I really enjoyed reading that one, El. My father didn't stop driving although he had macular degeneration. The day he stopped he hit the front door of a pickup whose owner was leaning into the truck. He said he could have k**led that man but that he was over that far to avoid the van full of kids that was coming down the other side of the street. I never knew why he thought he could do fine the 8 miles on a heavily travelled highway he had to take to get to his "fishing hole".
The way that man died reminded me very much of my dad. They, at the home, said that a couple of them had to go to his room to calm him one night when his eyesight and hearing loss caused him to think that he had been abandoned. They talked to him about 1/2 hour and he declared that he was going to take a nap. It was about 4:00 am and he just laid his head back on the pillow and died. He had sworn he was going for 100 but I think the 18 years without my mother finally got the best of him.
Feb 25, 2016 14:43:34 #
ConnorShields69 wrote:
The summation certainly is the "way of life"in my book.
"Life is too short to wake up with regrets. So love the people who
treat you right. Forget about the ones who don't. Believe everything
happens for a reason. If you get a chance, take it & if it changes
your life, let it. Nobody said life would be easy, they just promised
it would most likely be worth it."
Nice story, excellent finish. Something to live by while we can.
"Life is too short to wake up with regrets. So love the people who
treat you right. Forget about the ones who don't. Believe everything
happens for a reason. If you get a chance, take it & if it changes
your life, let it. Nobody said life would be easy, they just promised
it would most likely be worth it."
Nice story, excellent finish. Something to live by while we can.
:thumbup: :thumbup: Sure is but how many do? :(
Feb 25, 2016 14:44:26 #
oldroy wrote:
I really enjoyed reading that one, El. My father ... (show quote)
:thumbup: :thumbup: :(
Feb 26, 2016 22:42:36 #
Elwood wrote:
Going the e-mail rounds. br br br This is a stor... (show quote)
I learned a lot from that one. Thank you, Elwood.
Feb 27, 2016 00:19:30 #
dwight walker wrote:
I learned a lot from that one. Thank you, Elwood.
My pleasure Dwight. :-D
Feb 27, 2016 05:06:43 #
My grandmother on my father's side never drove...Just never wanted to she would say, followed with, besides her has a chauffeur all their life??? (Speaking of her husband..)
Cute story~~ :thumbup: :thumbup:
Cute story~~ :thumbup: :thumbup:
Feb 27, 2016 10:42:17 #
lindajoy wrote:
My grandmother on my father's side never drove...Just never wanted to she would say, followed with, besides her has a chauffeur all their life??? (Speaking of her husband..)
Cute story~~ :thumbup: :thumbup:
Cute story~~ :thumbup: :thumbup:
Thanks Linda. :lol:
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