Driving Through the Memories

[quasar]

We each of us have that one special relative that is just a little more special than the others. The one person we adore more than any other, the one person we cherish our time with the most. For me, that person was Grandpa Marty.

Grandpa Marty is long gone, but he hasn't left that special place in my heart. As I think back on the time we spent together, two of my fondest memories revolve around his car. I couldn't for the life of me tell you what type of car it was, what type of engine it had, or any of the 101 other technical details people measure cars by these days. I don't even remember what color it was.

What I do remember is the laughter inside. My grandpa was a kidder. He has this huge grin and his whole face would light up when he laughed. He loved to play little jokes and pranks on people, or poke fun at them in a good-hearted fun way.

My family moved to Pennsylvania when I was four and a half. Soon thereafter, Grandpa Marty and Grandma Stella paid us a visit. We lived in a little town called Boyertown, famous for a large casket factory and one of the best American Legion baseball teams in the country. Not exactly the city life we were used to. There was one big intersection - the intersection of Routes 100 and 73. I remember being in the car with Grandpa Marty; my dad and little sister were in dad's car directly behind us. Grandpa and I crossed this big intersection on a yellow light, but dad stopped. Grandpa pulled into a gas station to wait for dad. All of a sudden, he started gesturing wildly and singing "Chicken bones, Chicken bones, Chicken bones Karin." He didn't stop until dad pulled open his car door and got to hear the show himself. I still chuckle every time I think about this episode, something that would make my grandpa very happy.

But perhaps my fondest memory came even earlier when we still lived in Queens. I was about three and my parents, baby sister and I had driven over to visit the grandparents. Grandma Stella sent Grandpa Marty on an errand and he asked me to go with him. We walked out to his car and got in. He casually asked me if I wanted to drive. Being the inquisitive little engineer-in-training I already was, I nodded eagerly. I wanted to know how it all worked. Grandpa positioned me on his lap and taught me about steering. A few moments later, he turned the engine on, and we were off. A few minutes later he asked me if I was ready to drive by myself. I nodded, and he let go of the wheel. I was driving! Of course, he had his feet firmly ready to hit the brake, but to a three year old, this was the real deal. I was driving my first car!

That remains the only time in my life I've ever driven a car. I remember being proud and bragging about driving for weeks. I remember my mom yelling at her father that it was too dangerous and he must be crazy (he didn't deny it. How could he? He was a little bit crazy - in a good way). I don't remember the sensations of driving. I wish I did.

I sometimes think back on that day and try to remember what it felt like, to have that freedom. Driving is a privilege too many people take for granted. You shouldn't. What I wouldn't give to have the freedom to go somewhere on a whim, or even the freedom to not have to plan my life according to bus and train schedules. But it was not meant to be. At least I got to spend that time driving with grandpa. I wouldn't trade that for anything, not even the ability to drive my own car.