Holding the Keys
“The secret,” he told me, “is to pull a cotton towel across the surface just so, while the car is still wet. It has to be all cotton, and you can’t let the sun start to dry it or you’ll get spots.”
I’d gone to visit my grandparents at the lake one weekend on a break from school. Grandpa was excited to see my car and was anxious to teach me the essentials of waxing and washing it. I wasn’t proud of my first car, the 1970-something Plymouth Volaré, dubbed the Vo-la-la by my brother. Of course, he had little room to talk. He drove my car’s big sister, the Chrysler Le-Bo-Bo, a voluptuous silver sedan.
Best as I could tell, my scuffed black coupe was a senior citizen hand-me-down that a misguided teenager souped up with an erector set, beginning with a hand-cut sunroof.
The car would get me where I needed to go, but my cheeks flushed to pose with the car for Grandpa’s camera, and I was certain I’d never take the time to wipe it down for water spots.
None of that mattered to Grandpa. Owning a car was a milestone to be celebrated, and a responsibility to be taught. Perhaps, in some way, for him it marked my arrival at true adulthood, though, in my fifth year away from home at college, I thought I’d long since arrived.
Looking back, I suppose he may have been right by degrees. Keys to one’s own car were permission to go where one wanted. I could pick up groceries without planning ahead or begging favors. I no longer had to scan the bulletin board in the dorm lobby for a driver headed in my direction to travel home for breaks. And my roommates and I wouldn’t have to stick out our thumbs on the south on-ramp for I-94 when we worked weekends at the greenhouse in the city anymore.
Grandpa held onto his own keys as long as he could. Probably a lot longer than he should have. There were the posts and such that he bumped into — they were out of place, I’m sure. The cemetery plots he drove over — just a shortcut during the funeral processional, you know.
I recently worked on a mishap between an 18-wheeler and a kind older gentleman in a luxury sedan. It ended with the deputy writing orders for a driver evaluation that the man likely won’t pass. As I considered the abrupt turn his life is about to take because of one improper lane change, I recalled sitting around a restaurant table years ago in a small Iowa town plotting the disappearance of my grandpa’s car keys. A stretch of the truth here, an outright fabrication there, and if nothing else, an anonymous call to the appropriate parties. He and Grandma would be stranded in their senior housing complex and dependent on the kindness and convenience of friends and family.
The streets would be safer, sure. And something truly tragic averted. But Grandpa had to surrender an essential part of himself, necessarily but unwittingly. There was that day when Jesus told Peter he’d stretch out his hands and be dressed by another, and carried places he didn’t want to go. He didn’t say Peter was going to like it.
He just said it was how it was going to be.
Oh, the plotting. I felt like the nun in The Sound of Music the day I had to disconnect a few things out of my dad’s car engine. But, we knew it was well past time when he didn’t remember he even had a car, let alone where he parked it.
I’m still chewing on Sunday’s sermon on suffering … coupling it with David Dark’s comment about being a good steward of pain… and now this. It’s no coincidence that Grandpa and I have to surrender the very same thing … the driver’s seat.
p.s. Did Paul know about those hitchhiking escapades…? Geesh, Lyla.
2012/03/13 at 8:46 PM
If I remember right, Grandpa outsmarted everybody and kept the car for a while longer.
But eventually, it had to go.
And, I’m not sure what Paul and Bette knew. We’ll find out soon enough, I imagine.
My son was filling the water softener with salt for me tonight and I stood there wondering how many more good, able-bodied and -minded years I have left. We’re aging, Pat. Every day. Growing, but breaking down.
2012/03/13 at 8:51 PM
“… and that’s just how it’s going to be.”
2012/03/13 at 9:14 PM
Well, this nearly did me in–quick! Mention something about dingos!
But seriously. My dad wouldn’t let me get my driver’s license until I showed him I knew how to change a flat tire. You really captured something here about the way the presence of the automobile shapes modern ideas about independence and responsibility. My mom is nearing (or may be past) the point where she should no longer be driving. I hate to restrict her ability to visit her last sibling, but man, I do not want to get that phone call telling me that someone like you has been called out to survey the damage.
Beautiful writing and storytelling.
2012/03/14 at 7:25 AM
I haven’t changed a flat tire in so long… I hope I still know how.
I wonder, when that time comes, how willing I’ll be to cooperate with my kids.
2012/03/14 at 9:58 AM
Lyla and Patricia:
I suspect that as parents, we are like moms and dads in every generation. We only learn of these escapades 20 or 30 years after the fact while sitting around the Thanksgiving Table. Our grandchildren (often along with grandma and grandpa) can listen with horror or smiles as the miscreants regale us with their youthful high school/college adventures.
I only hitch hiked once and it didn’t turn out well but I’ll save that story for guest post sometime when the time is right.
Dad
2012/03/14 at 8:22 AM
It’s important, you know, to recognize that I did stop short of jumping trains with my friend Tom to get to Miami before my first Argentina project. But the option had been discussed in some seriousness before we bought airline tickets from the now defunct People Express.
2012/03/14 at 8:27 AM
This makes my heart ache just a little Lyla. My 92 year old dad is still driving around. Harmlessly so far, but it is a bit worrisome. I dread the day when it will be necessary to take away those keys. It represents, as you’ve so aptly said, so much more.
P.S. The thought of you hitch-hiking makes me have chills. No more of that young lady!!! (I know you don’t do it now, but I couldn’t resist.)
2012/03/14 at 9:43 AM
You remember, Linda, those days when nothing could touch us? Man, that’s another piece of writing altogether. We were immortal, invincible, under 25 and not a care in the world (except the occasional exam or paper or tuition bill). And I thought everybody else was reckless.
2012/03/14 at 11:22 AM
Immortal, invincible…….Lyla, you should have finished the line from the hymn
Immortal, invisible, God only wise
Dad
2012/03/14 at 11:37 AM
Something, Dad, about “wise” precluded me from doing so.
2012/03/14 at 12:41 PM
That conversation Jesus had with Peter, there by the banks of the Sea of Galilee – it comes to my mind all the time these days. It is the story of aging, that is for sure. None of us wants to go there – but we do and we must. We’re vacationing in a beautiful desert condominium this week, courtesy of one of my dearest friends – who is 95.5 and still drives around town. Not for much longer, I’m pretty sure – and her long distance driving (like out here the 4+ hours to the desert) has been curtailed by her family and she has acquiesced. My own mom – cannot see anymore, has trouble thinking well anymore and STILL she wishes she could drive. It is a huge part of our independence, just huge. I never in my life owned a car of my own. I wrecked my mom’s 1952 (!!!) Plymouth when I was 17 – long story – and I grabbed rides home from college with friends. Then I got married. Now I have a car that is ‘mine’ but hey, it ain’t the same. So treasure those memories of the Erector-set car – at least you had one. :>)
2012/03/14 at 11:24 AM
Lyla:
Your ears must have been ringing. During our recent trip to the Ozark Mountain Country Music Mecca, your aunt commented on a noticeable rattle that she had not been aware of prior to having new tires put on in anticipation of the trip (your mom notice it too). The two sisters recalled how their dad drummed into them the importance of listening for and being aware of little noises. All three of the Brim girls hear little noises and rattles well before their husbands.
It was indeed a dark day for your grandparents when their Buick vanished from its parking spot at the senior housing complex. After that divine intervention, visits with Grandma Margaret were never complete without her plaintive wish to again be allowed to drive. To drive again was probably number 2 on her Bucket List, right behind being present and sitting in the front row when the trumpet announcing the Lord’s return sounds.
I’ll stop with this comment.
Dad
2012/03/14 at 2:03 PM
Lyla, you sure know how to tell a story. I could see the towel and smell the wax and see you posting in front of that car.
I once watched a bit about a gentleman going out for his very last drive. He was over eighty and he was turning in his keys. It made me think. My friend Marge is 92 years old. Her children sat her down and gave her a list of places she can drive – church, the doctor’s office, a couple of friends’ homes – and a curfew. Marge is obedient, and her children are vigilant. They revisit the arrangement from time-to-time, and one day Marge will hand over her keys. But it will be a conversation they knew was coming.
One thing I’ve always wanted is a sunroof. Do you still have that car?
2012/03/14 at 3:53 PM
This resonates with something I’ve been thinking about recently — the two ends of life. Learning to drive/first car on one end and having to relinguish keys/last car on the other. I’m in the middle. I’ve been wondering what keeps me rooted to a bigger story than my own and part of it is that there are others in my family at these different points. One eye forward and one eye back. I am rooted in something larger than me
.
2012/03/14 at 7:20 PM
I thought of this verse many times in the last two years of my mother’s life. And now, my own.
2012/03/15 at 7:06 PM
One of the hardest things about having a massive stroke at age 48, was not being able to drive for a spell. My family was helpful in getting me places, but it is HARD. Someone always waiting and have to plan so much – no freedom. Was hard on my girls too, as their freedom and activities/ freedom got curtailed along with me.
I have a dear lady across the street who lost her license cause she had a stroke while driving and ran into someone. Is trying to jump through all the hoops to get it back, bless her heart. Feel so for her.
2012/03/23 at 10:53 AM