Now I'll tell you right from the start, dear readers, that I have never been the 'sharpest tool' in the shed, as the kids say. Indeed, until recently, I thought that Hamas was a delicious spread made of Chick Peas and eaten with flat bread. Not to put too fine a point on it, but depending on the situation, I can often be found, wearing rain gear and galoshes, but still having to be told to get out of the rain. I have voted for Ralph Nader three times for president. 3 Times! Get it? ...But, recently I came to an important life decision and I think I probably may have aced the test and made the right decision. To not drive any more.
As some of you social media friends of mine know, for the last few years I have been enjoying the many various aspects of Parkinson's Disease, a 'progressive' neuro-muscular disease. Well, maybe not enjoying it. More like toiling under the tyrannical yoke of Parkinson's. But as I have stated before, this diagnosis is both bad and also not really that bad at the same time, compared to what others are up against. But, for the purpose of this essay, when you have Parkies, one thing is for sure. It is a progressive condition. Meaning you don't get better. It may not croak you straight away, maybe not for many years. But when it comes to how it affects your body's functions, eventually it will get you. Running, walking, getting dressed, tying a tie, holding a cup of coffee. Ability to do these things, with skill, diminishes over time. Driving a car with Parkies, today's example, is an ability that diminishes with time. No matter what you think or want. Making you a liability or even a down-right hazard, driving around at 69 mph in a 4000 lb. potential death machine. Sooner or later, someone is going to make the call. I figured it was more dignified if it were me. So I put my keys on the hook by the front door, for the last time. Now friends, I have never been a big car guy, to be honest. But I have been a big independence guy. Getting out and about, taking the road trip. Dicking around on a sunny day, sun roof open, music blasting. I was the first to get my license back when I was a teen. At the tender age of 15 1/2, I had my licence to menace the sidewalks of Maine in 400 c.i. of internal combustion engine inside of a 2 ton Sherman tank. Of course at the tender age of 16 1/2 I had lost that license for 'Driving to Endanger'. But that is another story. It's not why we are here. Stay on task. Gosh! But speaking of cars, as we were, and in order to get started, I introduce you to some of the vehicles that got me started in being a Real american guy, with a CAR man, envy of all my buddies and wanted by all chicks at school needing a ride to the dance. It all really started with a beaten up old Army Jeep.
An old 1955 Willy's Jeep to be Specific. Side boards made of plywood on the back to pack with hay, one window that wouldn't close up and a floor board like Swiss cheese. It had a really low gear ratio with a speed stick shift. That meant if you didn't pay attention, you might 'pop the clutch' causing the front end to leap and lurch like a spastic Shetland pony. And no matter how many times I practiced in the hay fields getting it down, my first trip out on the real roads, on the mean streets of Pittsfield Maine had me a hopping and popping that clutch in the parking lot of my grandfather's gas station. He happened to be at work. Now to say that my old Paba, best grandfather ever, was a nervous guy is to say that the Titanic was a big ship, or Yosemite Sam had Tourette's. Paba was a 'Nervous Nelly' for sure. And he didn't stand for no 'monkey shines'. No 'Happy Horseshit' either. But there I was, doing wheelies in Pa's place of business. His wig: flipped. I eventually did master the subtle nuances of the old, low gear ratio, 3 speed stick, thanks, not to Paba, but to the 1955 Willy's. Also packed a lot of hay into the barn over the years with that old jeep.
"4 barrel carb and dual exhaust"...
As I mentioned earlier, I was just a a hair under 16 when I got my license and was declared to legally traverse the byways of Maine, and beyond, all by myself, or even worse, with a group of teenage yahoos in tow. Now when I was that age, I had a gig working at a local seafood restaurant, as well as various side hustles at local farms, milking cows, shoveling shit, baling hay, etc. So I had pretty good bread at the time. You know, for a 16 year old mook, anyway. So since I ha a driver's license, I figured I needed a car so, you know, I'd have something to roll over at a high speed, or crash into a guardrail with. So what'd I get? The magnificent ' Deathmobile'. A 1974 Mercury Monterrey. It had a a 400 c.i. engine that could really get lost, a suspension system that made you feel like you were floating in a boat. It slept 6 comfortably, unless you opened the trunk which offered lodging for three more. It had an 8 track stereo system that had dynamite sound, but unfortunately the Beatles White Album cassette was stuck in it, and played on continuous loop. Brakes good. Tires fair. Lost my license to drive in the old Deathmobile TWICE within a year, by the SAME cop, my unfriendly bastard and NEIGHBOR, state trooper Duane. One time for 'Driving to Endanger', the other time for doing '78 in a 55'. See while most kids were either too scared to go for their license, or were too shit scared to be pulled over, I was driving through town with my two best buddies riding on thr hood like Bo and Luke Duke, or screeching to Augusta, and the nearest Ticketron kiosk, to get tickets to see the Rolling Stones. Ah well, live and learn. Or so one would think.
So I was working, in my early 20's, doing construction work with my old Uncle Frank. We worked for a company that sent us around the country building women's clothing stores. Fun,sure. But it really was just a gig to keep us busy between beer times. It also could afford me and Frankme to explore the lifestyle we were accustomed to. Namely, at his time, we were mainly concerned with driving around in the company van, wasting time and gas, scanning boat yards and junkyards for an old gem of a wooden boat. Like a 1967 wooden Cris Craft, teak deck, inboard Ford 302 c.i. in board engine. It was a pipe dream we eventually did live out - bringing a house boat back to Maine and living the Jimmy Buffet life. But on this particular summer afternoon, cruising the shores of Maryland and Delaware, there were no boat deals. But there was a car deal. Out in then front of a relatively small Catholic church, sat a 1967 Volkswagen Beetle. Creamy white in color, it was. It had the small little window in the back and the funky pipe bumpers. Sure the floorboards were rusted out and the tires a bit worse for wear. But it ran good, and was able to get WTOP on the AM radio, so, at least I'd have traffic and weather together on the 5's. And dig this: the guy selling it was the local parish priest, a father Augustine O'Reilly. What?! Yep, Father Augustine O'Reilly. And he was asking a mere $250 bucks. 250 BUCKS! So, when I eventually came back home to Maine, I was swinging with a 'punch buggy'. The tin knockers on the job gave me some galvanized metal, along with some roofing pitch and tech screws, so my floor boards were even safe. I loved that punch buggy. I turned beatnik for a while . Grew a goatee. I stuck an accoustic guitar in the back n case a 'Hootinany' broke out. Thanks your holiness....or your excellency...or....?....Hell, thanks Augie!
A 1985, I think it was, Ford F-150 pick up, with a camper cap on the back. Back before I had a credit card, or even a cell phone to get me out of jams, I repeatedly threw caution to the wind with this old beatah pick up, and engaged in se veral cross country type road trips. I travelled to Colorado, accelerator shit the bed. On way back form New Orleans, my timing chain crapped out and we had to be rescued in the Panhandle of Florida by this dude named Bobo. I hear banjo music. I used to sleep in the back after weekend trips home to Maine while working in Boston. Camping in an abandoned lot next door to a crack house?! Talk about wild life. Sometimes plan A was a lot more fun because there was no Plan B.
Now most of the beaters I have driven over the years represent, to me, the foibles of my youth. The fun and adventure of adolescence. Risky behavior and rule bending fun. To me my first mini van was oposite. It was a Dodge Grand Caravan. 1989? 1990? I think. Somewhere in there. We didn't buy it new, but it was pretty new. And had payment. With it, we (my wife, kids) took museum trips, went to zoos. birthday parties, Soccer, tee ball, Scouts, D.I., Robotix club. We packed it up to go to camp, and loaded it full of posters and paints and kids to school events. A real suburban un-macho dad mobile. Which makes it all the more ironic that it met its demise (but thankfully I did not meet mine)on the butt end of two Maine moose I ran into on the way to a binrd hunt up near Greenville. FYI, the two big slow, unreflecting, hard to see in the dark, behometh deer of the North, finished up the old Grocery getter, eventually for good.
Just like my driving career is pretty much finished. No more road trips to be stranded on. No more moose to slay, no more speeding laws to ignore. No more picking up the kids at school. 'Get Parskinson's, they said. It'll be fun they said'. Thanks a lot,F'n Parkies! Ah well. It was a good run. Errr...or a pleasant drive.
"If you don't stop drivin' that Hot... Rod..."
No comments:
Post a Comment