My Dad liked buying second hand cars from his friends at the
office. In 1961, he came home with a used
Oldsmobile. It was to replace the 1950,
dark blue Ford he had driven for the last eight years.
He decided to sell the older car since we had no need for two,
but Mom asked him for it. Dad nixed the idea because she was pregnant and she didn’t
know how to drive. He didn’t want her
behind the wheel.
That was all Mom needed to hear. She called two of our aunts and
they made secret plans behind Dad’s back, a secret everyone knew about except for
him.
The aunts took turns teaching Mom standard shift while Dad was
at work during the day, and in a few weeks all she needed was practice. That
and courage – courage to pass her driving test and tell Dad what she had done.
One weekend a month, Dad would take all of us to visit his
mother in south Texas. Nothing kept us from
making the monthly trek, but Mom was hugely pregnant by now and used it
as her excuse to stay back. She complained
about the one-way, four-hour trip and insisted he leave her at home to “rest.”
We all begged to stay to take care of “Mommy.” He suspected
something was up but could never figure it out. We were not about to snitch, so
he gave up and every month chose one of us to go with him. He rotated among the three of us, and the
other two tried not to look too happy.
Dad was gone from Friday night until late Sunday, so that left
plenty of time for mischief. Mom would wait a couple of hours after he left (just
in case he returned because he forgot something or was checking on her) before
grabbing the keys to the old blue Ford. She
would yell for us to get our shoes and off we went. She’d buy our silence with joy
rides about the neighborhood and greasy hamburgers and thick milk shakes from the
closest Dairy Queen.
She never did quite get the hang of the standard shift, but
that did not keep her from attempting to cross two very busy streets. Our car would sputter and die or jerk and
whiplash while cars honked and people yelled bad, angry words at us. We would squeal with delight as she gripped
our lives in her hands.
Persínense, she
yelled as she eased up on the clutch and stomped on the gas. We cackled with laughter as we frantically
blessed ourselves with the Sign of the Cross.
Lean forward. She shifted into second and we would bend at
the waist, honestly believing our skinny little bodies helped propel that old
tank to safety.
I don’t think Dad ever learned the whole story about how Mom
learned to drive, but she got her driver’s license and the old blue Ford. Years
later when he had his stroke, she became his chauffeur and he bought her a
brand new car for her efforts. No more old, second-hand bargains.
If there is a museum for old memories, that old blue Ford is
parked right there, front and center, a symbol of my mom’s determination and
independence - my rebel without a driver’s license.
I love this post! Your mama is quite a woman!
ReplyDeleteShe certainly is. Thank you.
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