NOW I Understand

When I first got my driver’s license, I was 16 and ready to take on the world. My parents, bless their hearts, found a $400.00, 1963 Oldsmobile F-85 (predecessor to the Cutlass) for sale at a finance company and bought it for me. I, of course, had begged for the 1965 Ford Mustang at the car lot on Topanga Canyon. It was a special edition, with tooled horses on the seat covers. My boyfriend had a 1966 Mustang, and we could have been almost twins. It was my pipe dream; the Mustang was $1800.00.

That Oldsmobile was a bit of a dog. My dad bought new seat covers (the kind you stretch on over the old ones) in black and white tweed. At some point, seat belts (lap only) were installed. The boyfriend installed cute little round mirrors out of the front fenders (trendy at the time). Unfortunately, that little maroon four-door also had a cracked engine block. What that meant to me was, I had to carry around a couple of gallons of water at all times, because the engine would routinely overheat.

Still, I was thrilled to be driving to school. I parked on the street within a block or two of Van Nuys High. My mother, ever the nervous wreck, required that I call her every morning when I arrived. Remember, this is WAY before the days of anything like a portable phone. So, beside the front door at home was a cup full of dimes. As I left each morning, I took a dime from the cup. Once at school, I made a stop at the payphone booth in the lobby of the administration building and I called Mom.

“I’m here.”

“Okay. See you after school.”

“Bye.”

Ugh. Grr. Hrmph. Didn’t see any other kids lined up at the phone booth in the morning.

Some days, either because I was late or just distracted, I forgot to call. On such days, I could count on there being a note on my windshield when I got out. “You forgot to call. –Mom”. Yep, she’d drive all that way and look for my car. Mortifying.

Forty-four years have passed.
My daughter is getting ready to take her driving test. Soon, she’ll be out the door in the morning, rushing, distracted, anxious to get a parking spot at Hart High. There is no cup of dimes by the door, and even though she’ll have a cell phone in her purse, she won’t be bothered to call me.

Feeling a very strong connection with Mom right now. I’m sorry, Mom, for being cranky. Sorry for the times I forgot to call. Sorry if I ever made you worry a day in your life.

Now I understand. I know there will be days when I’ll be tempted to take a little drive down Newhall Avenue, when I might happen to glance to the side, when I might glimpse the blue Highlander in the “Q” lot.

I also understand it’s not just about worrying over traffic and safety. It’s also ALL about letting go of the dependence. For eighteen years I have been her wheels (and her tether), logging countless miles and countless hours of mostly uninterrupted talk, confidences, laughter. The good news is, someday she’ll be driving me around, and hopefully, the confidences–and laughter–will continue…