The Story of Grandad: Chapter 2
Planes, Trains and Automobiles
If there is one thing that holds true in American society today, it’s that elderly people are dangerous when placed behind the wheel of an automobile. I know that the majority of serious accidents are caused by a much younger generation, but I’m standing strong with my previous statement. The sheer number of accidents caused by 'the youth' is probably in part due to their reckless abandon and their inexperience. Older people, on the other hand, probably don’t get into serious accidents as often because the rest of us know that they are dangerous, and we generally steer clear. Or maybe it’s because they generally don’t travel at over 35 miles per hour.
Enter Walter Myhre. Eighty-nine years old, mostly blind in at least one eye, and with dead-cat like reflexes unrivaled in the modern world. To complete a visualization of his driving prowess in recent times, I will take you through an average trek in the car with my grandfather. Sort of put you in the passenger seat during the journey.
First off, you have to know that Grandad uses a walker just to walk around. He has a special folding one for the car. It has four wheels, a seat, handlebars, and a fantastic braking system. He leans on it, pushes it forward, takes a step, and repeats. It’s a slow process, and the trip from the house to the car usually takes 10 to 15 minutes. Once he gets there he finds the right key, usually after checking two or three wrong ones in the process, opens the door, and unlocks the rest of the car. He then takes the walker, opens the back door. Puts the walker in the back seat, closes the door, and supporting himself on the car, walks back to the front door. He then falls into the driver seat and closes the door behind him.
Next is the seatbelt. I have notices a strange phenomenon with my grandfather. When he is doing something such as buckling a seatbelt, he gets this really serious look on his face and closes his eyes. What it seems like to me is that he is using ‘The Force’ to buckle his seatbelt. I can think of no other logical reason for the closed eye look of intense concentration that he has while completing this process.
So, walker loaded, seatbelt on, doors closed, he’s ready to start the car. Again, finding the right key by process of elimination, he starts the engine. As soon as the engine is running, the gas pedal is pressed down until the car reaches RPMs easily exceeding 7000. This, he later explains to me, is because he cannot hear the car running, and must check to make sure the engine did indeed start. Next is the inevitable wiping of the windshield. Not because the windshield needs cleaning, but because the lever was yet again confused with the lever that puts the car in gear.
And now we’re off. The windshield is freshly washed, and the car is on the open road. Well, semi-open, as there are other cars everywhere. This is where the blinker comes into play. To the older generation, the blinker is God. A blinker means, “I’m turning, you should know this, and I don’t have any need to look for other traffic in the way, because they should have seen my signal.”
Well, at least for the useful part of that signals life. After that, the blinker just means, “I’m old and I forgot to turn it off.”
In the recent past, or at least since I moved to New Jersey, my grandfather pretty much just drove to church on Sunday. In all honesty, he didn’t really have any place else he had to go. Of course, that has all changed now.
About 4 months ago, I summarily revoked Grandads driving privileges. But let’s go back a little bit further, to the days when I still let my grandfather talk me into accompanying him to church.
It was a fine August morning. We had arrived at the Montgomery Evangelical Free Church safely with Gods watchful eye focused on our trek, no doubt. We were parking in one of the few handicap spots that the church had, when my uncle walked by. My uncle gave a wave, and of course Grandad and I waved back. Meanwhile, nobody told the Oldsmobile that we weren’t paying attention anymore, and it kept right on driving forward. Right into the back of another Oldsmobile driven by one of my grandfathers elderly peers. Luckily, we didn’t cause any damage, and Grandad just backed up a little bit and we we're parked.
That was the first incident that I witnessed, but wouldn’t be the last.
The clincher occurred one evening when Grandad was driving home from my uncle’s house. My uncle lives about 3 houses up the road, so this was no great danger...or so we thought. I had left earlier that evening to let my dog out, and even though Grandad had been expressly forbidden from driving at night by my aunt (the chief authority and last word in all things Grandad related), we figured it to be safe, as it was so close to home and very familiar.
I was in the house when he arrived, and went down to help Grandad out. When I reached the bottom of the driveway, I saw that my grandfather had parked about 6 feet from the edge. He was out in the middle of the driveway; there was no way around the car.
“What are you doing Grandad?” I asked as he opened the door and slowly got out of the car.
“Well, it’s a little dark outside, and I couldn’t see very well, so I wanted to look and see how much further back I could go.” Replied Grandad, matter-of-factly.
“Oh, uhm, ok Grandad.” I replied. What could I say?
So he gets out of the car, gets the walker out of the back seat, walks to the rear of the car, looks at it for a moment, walks back to the driver’s door, and gets in.
The rest is like a nightmare. I can still picture it in my head. I can still remember the horror that went through my mind. The visions of his mangled lifeless body melded with metal and wood.
Grandad puts the car in reverse, leans out the still open door, and hits the gas. Mind you, he has 4 foot to back up, and it’s down hill. He hits the gas and the car roars to life. It shoots back 4 feet, jumps over the Belgium bricks that mark the border of the driveway and the lawn, and leaves 2 ruts in the grass as the wheels spin with new found freedom. By this point I am yelling, “The brakes! Hit the brakes! For the love of God THE BRAKES!” But to no avail. The car rockets across 30 feet of lawn, and makes contact with the 20 foot tall pear tree in the back yard. Luckily, my yelling had distracted my grandfather from looking behind him with his head out of the door. At the last minute he pulled his head back in the car, the car struck the tree, the door slammed closed, and the window shattered with the force of impact. If his head had still been out of the door…
Anyway, Grandad doesn’t think this is anything to get worked up about. Meanwhile, I am still picturing his lifeless decapitated body, as I pull it out of the wreckage of glass, metal, and tree. He turns to me and says, “What?”
At this point, I lose it. I usually try to control my temper, but I am so scared, so confused, and feeling so guilty, that I snap.
“What the f&*k were you thinking? What the f&*k did you just do? This can’t f&*king happen again. F*&k! Are you okay Grandad? I thought you were dead for sure! What the f&*k just happened? This can’t f*&king happen again! F&*k!”
And to this tirade, he laughs. He laughs! I am picturing his lifeless body, and telling the family that my grandfather is dead, and he’s laughing. Oh, I won’t repeat the flood of words that came out of my mouth at that point, suffice to say they weren’t pretty.
Anyhow, I stuck to my word. That was Grandad’s last great ride. The window was never fixed, the bumper, which until the day we got rid of the car, made a perfect v into the non-functioning trunk was never fixed. The car was rendered undrivable, and that’s the way I liked it.
Of course the fight that followed would go down in history as the bloodiest battle since WWII. That was the battle for Grandad’s driving rights. Or against them, depending on whose side you were on. Of course, on Grandad's side was himself, on my side was everyone else in family as well as neighborhood.
The winning blow centered on the fact that if this could happen in the driveway, imagine if it happened on the streets. Then imagine that someone is killed in the process. His first response was, “Everyone has to go sometime.” But that was purely irrational.
You see, to Grandad, this was more than a fight to drive to church one day a week. It was a fight for basic freedom. He had driven for over 60 years at this point. He knew if he needed to go someplace, he had but to get into his car and go there. Taking away his car was to him like taking away his freedom, and maybe even his manhood.
But eventually, after constant badgering, he agreed, and we have since given his car to a charity. That day will, however, go down in my personal history as one of the scariest times in my life.
*** To Be Continued.
If there is one thing that holds true in American society today, it’s that elderly people are dangerous when placed behind the wheel of an automobile. I know that the majority of serious accidents are caused by a much younger generation, but I’m standing strong with my previous statement. The sheer number of accidents caused by 'the youth' is probably in part due to their reckless abandon and their inexperience. Older people, on the other hand, probably don’t get into serious accidents as often because the rest of us know that they are dangerous, and we generally steer clear. Or maybe it’s because they generally don’t travel at over 35 miles per hour.
Enter Walter Myhre. Eighty-nine years old, mostly blind in at least one eye, and with dead-cat like reflexes unrivaled in the modern world. To complete a visualization of his driving prowess in recent times, I will take you through an average trek in the car with my grandfather. Sort of put you in the passenger seat during the journey.
First off, you have to know that Grandad uses a walker just to walk around. He has a special folding one for the car. It has four wheels, a seat, handlebars, and a fantastic braking system. He leans on it, pushes it forward, takes a step, and repeats. It’s a slow process, and the trip from the house to the car usually takes 10 to 15 minutes. Once he gets there he finds the right key, usually after checking two or three wrong ones in the process, opens the door, and unlocks the rest of the car. He then takes the walker, opens the back door. Puts the walker in the back seat, closes the door, and supporting himself on the car, walks back to the front door. He then falls into the driver seat and closes the door behind him.
Next is the seatbelt. I have notices a strange phenomenon with my grandfather. When he is doing something such as buckling a seatbelt, he gets this really serious look on his face and closes his eyes. What it seems like to me is that he is using ‘The Force’ to buckle his seatbelt. I can think of no other logical reason for the closed eye look of intense concentration that he has while completing this process.
So, walker loaded, seatbelt on, doors closed, he’s ready to start the car. Again, finding the right key by process of elimination, he starts the engine. As soon as the engine is running, the gas pedal is pressed down until the car reaches RPMs easily exceeding 7000. This, he later explains to me, is because he cannot hear the car running, and must check to make sure the engine did indeed start. Next is the inevitable wiping of the windshield. Not because the windshield needs cleaning, but because the lever was yet again confused with the lever that puts the car in gear.
And now we’re off. The windshield is freshly washed, and the car is on the open road. Well, semi-open, as there are other cars everywhere. This is where the blinker comes into play. To the older generation, the blinker is God. A blinker means, “I’m turning, you should know this, and I don’t have any need to look for other traffic in the way, because they should have seen my signal.”
Well, at least for the useful part of that signals life. After that, the blinker just means, “I’m old and I forgot to turn it off.”
In the recent past, or at least since I moved to New Jersey, my grandfather pretty much just drove to church on Sunday. In all honesty, he didn’t really have any place else he had to go. Of course, that has all changed now.
About 4 months ago, I summarily revoked Grandads driving privileges. But let’s go back a little bit further, to the days when I still let my grandfather talk me into accompanying him to church.
It was a fine August morning. We had arrived at the Montgomery Evangelical Free Church safely with Gods watchful eye focused on our trek, no doubt. We were parking in one of the few handicap spots that the church had, when my uncle walked by. My uncle gave a wave, and of course Grandad and I waved back. Meanwhile, nobody told the Oldsmobile that we weren’t paying attention anymore, and it kept right on driving forward. Right into the back of another Oldsmobile driven by one of my grandfathers elderly peers. Luckily, we didn’t cause any damage, and Grandad just backed up a little bit and we we're parked.
That was the first incident that I witnessed, but wouldn’t be the last.
The clincher occurred one evening when Grandad was driving home from my uncle’s house. My uncle lives about 3 houses up the road, so this was no great danger...or so we thought. I had left earlier that evening to let my dog out, and even though Grandad had been expressly forbidden from driving at night by my aunt (the chief authority and last word in all things Grandad related), we figured it to be safe, as it was so close to home and very familiar.
I was in the house when he arrived, and went down to help Grandad out. When I reached the bottom of the driveway, I saw that my grandfather had parked about 6 feet from the edge. He was out in the middle of the driveway; there was no way around the car.
“What are you doing Grandad?” I asked as he opened the door and slowly got out of the car.
“Well, it’s a little dark outside, and I couldn’t see very well, so I wanted to look and see how much further back I could go.” Replied Grandad, matter-of-factly.
“Oh, uhm, ok Grandad.” I replied. What could I say?
So he gets out of the car, gets the walker out of the back seat, walks to the rear of the car, looks at it for a moment, walks back to the driver’s door, and gets in.
The rest is like a nightmare. I can still picture it in my head. I can still remember the horror that went through my mind. The visions of his mangled lifeless body melded with metal and wood.
Grandad puts the car in reverse, leans out the still open door, and hits the gas. Mind you, he has 4 foot to back up, and it’s down hill. He hits the gas and the car roars to life. It shoots back 4 feet, jumps over the Belgium bricks that mark the border of the driveway and the lawn, and leaves 2 ruts in the grass as the wheels spin with new found freedom. By this point I am yelling, “The brakes! Hit the brakes! For the love of God THE BRAKES!” But to no avail. The car rockets across 30 feet of lawn, and makes contact with the 20 foot tall pear tree in the back yard. Luckily, my yelling had distracted my grandfather from looking behind him with his head out of the door. At the last minute he pulled his head back in the car, the car struck the tree, the door slammed closed, and the window shattered with the force of impact. If his head had still been out of the door…
Anyway, Grandad doesn’t think this is anything to get worked up about. Meanwhile, I am still picturing his lifeless decapitated body, as I pull it out of the wreckage of glass, metal, and tree. He turns to me and says, “What?”
At this point, I lose it. I usually try to control my temper, but I am so scared, so confused, and feeling so guilty, that I snap.
“What the f&*k were you thinking? What the f&*k did you just do? This can’t f&*king happen again. F*&k! Are you okay Grandad? I thought you were dead for sure! What the f&*k just happened? This can’t f*&king happen again! F&*k!”
And to this tirade, he laughs. He laughs! I am picturing his lifeless body, and telling the family that my grandfather is dead, and he’s laughing. Oh, I won’t repeat the flood of words that came out of my mouth at that point, suffice to say they weren’t pretty.
Anyhow, I stuck to my word. That was Grandad’s last great ride. The window was never fixed, the bumper, which until the day we got rid of the car, made a perfect v into the non-functioning trunk was never fixed. The car was rendered undrivable, and that’s the way I liked it.
Of course the fight that followed would go down in history as the bloodiest battle since WWII. That was the battle for Grandad’s driving rights. Or against them, depending on whose side you were on. Of course, on Grandad's side was himself, on my side was everyone else in family as well as neighborhood.
The winning blow centered on the fact that if this could happen in the driveway, imagine if it happened on the streets. Then imagine that someone is killed in the process. His first response was, “Everyone has to go sometime.” But that was purely irrational.
You see, to Grandad, this was more than a fight to drive to church one day a week. It was a fight for basic freedom. He had driven for over 60 years at this point. He knew if he needed to go someplace, he had but to get into his car and go there. Taking away his car was to him like taking away his freedom, and maybe even his manhood.
But eventually, after constant badgering, he agreed, and we have since given his car to a charity. That day will, however, go down in my personal history as one of the scariest times in my life.
*** To Be Continued.
posted by Damon | 8:41 AM
4 Comments:
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