The Acrobat

My Little Green Car - The 1976 Datsun B210 - Best. Car. Ever. 

I let the clutch out very slowly and pushed on the accelerator.  I listened for the pitch of the car’s engine to tell me when I had enough power to make the turn and get up and over the hill.  I thought I had it right, so I let out the clutch all the way and the car lurched forward and died. I’d let the clutch out too fast.  As it began drifting backward toward the car behind me, I stomped on the brake and the honking commenced.

Crap! I could feel the tears of frustration begin to sting my eyes as I started the car again.   I was going to be stuck on that little hill forever.

Mom took a deep breath and said, “They’ll wait.  If they get antsy, they’ll go around.  Third time’s the charm.  Just take it easy and give her a little more gas.  It’s all about balance.”  My mother had the patience of Job.

I’d bought the car for $200 two weeks before my 19^th birthday, even though I had absolutely no idea how to drive a standard shift car.  It was a little, dark green, ’76 Datsun B-210.   I couldn’t drive it, but, oh, I loved it.  It was sporty, gas-efficient, and, best of all, it had an after-market Pioneer digital cassette deck stereo system in it that kicked butt. 

I missed the independence that a car gave me after selling my first car.  It had been a 1969 Plymouth Belvedere with a bored-out 6 cylinder engine.  It could pass anything but a gas station.  I missed long rides with my music and the thrum of the big engine.  I missed being able to go wherever I wanted to, whenever I wanted to go, (as long as I had the gas money).  I longed to pop in my U2 cassettes and listen to the stereo system of my new car at top volume, with all the windows down, blazing down the freeway like I used to in the Mighty Thunder Wagon.  The only way I was going to reclaim my independence was taking the leap and learning to drive a stick. 

Mom had been raised on a ranch in Arizona and had learned to drive when she was about 12.  Because they lived 50 miles across the Arizona-Sonora Desert from the nearest town, it had been essential that my mom and her sister know how to drive in case something happened and they had to go for help.  So, as soon as Mom could reach the pedals in the International Harvester pickup with “three on the tree”, her Daddy had taught her to drive.

Once, my dad had bought a VW van.  Mom drove like the car was an extension of her body: smoothly and confidently.  Dad could not master the VW clutch.  Every time he drove, we’d hold on to the panic handles for dear life.  Eventually, he killed the van.  We’d been on the freeway on our way to Pataskala.  He was so mad that he walked all the way home.  As he ranted, he vowed he was never going to own another standard shift car, much less a foreign car.  So, though most of my friends learned to drive from their fathers, Mom taught me the ropes.  She was unflappable.

As I sat on that hill with all the traffic behind me waiting, ever so patiently, I thought about equilibrium.  Mom watched the traffic on Karl Road for an opening so I could make the turn.

“Okay, kid, here comes your break.  Now, push down on the accelerator and ease off your clutch until the gears pull at the car, just a little bit.  Try not to let it grind.”

I began to let out the clutch and push on the accelerator and the pitch of the engine dropped until the gear engaged.  It caught with a sound like an enormous zipper would make and I grimaced.  That sounded expensive.  The car moved forward slightly.  I eased back a little on the accelerator and found the balance point between the clutch and accelerator to keep it steady on the hill until I was ready to move.  The car I was waiting for made a right turn without signaling.

Nice, I thought.  I could’ve made that turn anytime.  Now I have to hurry.

“All right now,” Mom was saying, “push down that accelerator and let go of the clutch.  One motion, honey.  Go. Go. Go.”

I hit the pedal on the right a little too hard and let my foot off the clutch a little too quickly.  The car shot forward and shuddered like a bowl of Jello in an earthquake as I turned to the left.  With a final lurch, a squeal of tire tread and a clank of the flywheel, I was off!  Finally!

“Good job, kid.”  Mom smiled, “That’s the toughest thing to learn: turning left at the top of a hill at a busy intersection.  Good job.”

I let out a sigh of relief.

“You hungry, Mom?”  I pulled up to another stop light just as it was turning red.  I engaged the clutch, let off the accelerator and shifted the car back into first gear as I began to brake and waited for the light.

Mom sighed, “I guess it’s time for lunch, isn’t it?”  I nodded.  She continued, “Well, let’s stop and get something and then we’ll lurch on home.”  She chuckled.  I made a face at her. The light changed and I let out the clutch and pushed the accelerator.  I took off smoothly, as if I’d driven the car for years.

“There you go!  You got it!”  Mom was pleased.  She settled back into her seat.  I hadn’t noticed how tense she’d gotten.  “See. It’s all about balance, kid.  Once you learn how to balance, everything else is easy.”

Silly things that I do (Part 962,000)

So, night before last, I spotted my poor basil plant languishing in the cold weather on my porch. I decided that it needed a change of scenery (or at least of temperature) so I thought I would bring it inside. My husband, however, suggested that I take it to work with me, to brighten up my office.

Now, let's understand each other. I have a black thumb. I can grow things: all one has to do is make sure the plant gets light and water. However, I always forget my plants. I actually had a swamp plant that my brother would regularly bring back to life when I would forget to water it. It became a joke at the office. Last year, I successfully killed a Norfolk Pine. In my defense, I did manage to keep it alive and thriving for more than six months. But then I went on vacation, and it was never the same afterward.

But, I digress. I decided I'd give the basil plant a try in my office. I dutifully loaded it up into the new minivan, which smells like the inside of an ashtray right now. (Thanks, former owner.) And I drove to work.

Somewhere in the middle of all of the commuter traffic, I forgot about the plant. I went inside my office building and forgot all about it. I only remembered when I went to get back in the car this morning and the entire car smelled like pesto.

"What the heck smells like pesto?" I thought, incredulously. And then it hit me: The Basil Plant.

You would think, with all the coming and going we do in our family, that someone would have said something like, "Hey, Mom? What's this plant doing on the floor in the back seat?" But, no. We're so odd that it's evidently not totally weird to have a basil plant sitting in the back of the car.

On the up side, the plant does look much better. It seems very happy where it is. Maybe I'll leave it in the car. If only I could remember to water it. The fresh clean scent of basil beats the heck out of cigarettes any day! Maybe I'll put oregano and rosemary in there, too. Heck, I could take my own spices to the Pizza parlor.

Wait, that would really be too odd, wouldn't it?

Buckle up!

In the morning (most mornings), I have the Bus Driver From Hell (hereafter known as the BDFH). This guy is amazing. He'll leave people standing at the stop if they are not right on the bus at Broad and High. You can be running full-tilt right for the bus, waving cash in the air, and he'll go around other buses to leave you standing. And that's nothing, compared to his driving.

Bus drivers usually drive cautiously, as if they had precious cargo aboard. Not the BDFH. The BDFH drives the bus like it's an Indy car. It's amazing to see, I am sure, but really breathtaking from inside the bus. I estimate that he does about 35 in the 25 zones around my office. And if that's not enough, the route twists and turns through the neighborhood, but the BDFH just sees this as a challenge to make those curves without dropping below 30.

I have heard the BDFH even break into road rage tirade from behind the wheel. Some of these were even peppered with profanity.

My favorite BDFH episode came this morning. I got on the bus (I just made it) and before I had taken even two steps toward my seat he was pulling away from the curb. There were two buses ahead of us. Most drivers will honk a little "toot-toot" to make sure that the driver of the other bus knows they're getting passed, but not BDFH. He laid on his horn and if bus tires could squeal, I am sure he would have laid rubber. I was surprised not to hear Cruella de Ville's classic epithet "road hog" come out of his mouth. But, BDFH restrained himself. Evidently, he was trying to make sure he made the light, which he did, only to get stuck at the next one, whereupon we heard his stand-by, "Oh, come ON!" I looked in the rear view mirror of the bus and saw that the bus we passed was right behind us. As we waited for the light to change, I swear that the BDFH actually gunned his engine. As soon as the light changed, we were off. The brakes on our buses don't screech, but if they did, that's how we would have come to a halt in front of my bus friend at the next stop. She got on and he took off almost immediately, careening off down to the next turn.

As my bus friend managed to sit down on something resembling a seat, instead of the floor, we looked at each other and rolled our eyes. We always threaten to call him in, but neither of us ever has. As he pulled away from the next stop, he was stuck in the curb lane by a long line of cars. We could hear BDFH muttering to himself, "Oh, come on! Don't do this to me!" and sounds that my husband and I describe as "ruckin'-skruckin'". Finally, he got a big enough break and he swerved quickly into the lane, speeding off to the next stop.

As we approached my stop, I waited for the precise moment to pull the bell. And it is tricky. The stops are a little too close together so if I pull it too soon, he stops at the wrong stop, too late and he won't stop until the next stop, and there is always an audible sigh. I always wait to stand up to get out because I don't want to be thrown to the floor by the force of the stop.

I always say "Have a nice day!" to the BDFH as I disembark and today was no different. I keep hoping that, eventually, he'll start to become nicer, but I am beginning to think this hope may be a vain one. As I climbed down out of the coach I had to check the impulse to kiss the ground to thank God for allowing me to survive.

Honestly, where do they find these guys?

Photo: still from "Speed" - Keanu Reeves and Sandra Bullock

Snowfall

I do not remember when I realized that snow was one of my mother's favorite natural phenomena, but I think I was quite young. I have a very hazy memory of sitting on her lap at the front door of our little post-war house in Colonial Hills watching the snow fall. We would sit with the storm door shut, but the front door open so we could see more. I can remember her telling me that she loved the snow, because it never snowed where she came from. Mom came from the deserts of southern Arizona. Since then, I think I have always loved the snow, too, but until just recently, I never wondered what made me like the snow so well.

I was a winter time baby (born in early March) and so, when I got my driver's license, I had to learn how to drive in the snow. The test was to take DAD in the car and not scare him. This was a tall order. I couldn't exhale in the car without scaring my dad. I remember picking up my Grandmother (his mom) from her house for dinner. He dutifully rode over with me (since it had recently snowed) and coached me the whole way (now, tap your brakes...not too fast, now). Once my Grandmother got into the car however, he became a bit more frantic that I do a good job. Finally, Grandma told him, "Be quiet, David! For heaven's sake you're making her more nervous and she's doing just fine!" He, being a perfect child, (har-har) did stay quiet and I did manage to "pass the snow test". I always considered myself a good snow driver and actually liked driving in the snow. But walking in the snow is a totally different kettle of fish.

Walking in the snow requires attention to detail, balance and the reflexes of a cat. You never know what may be hiding under that clean white layer of snow. It could be ice. One day, it was doggie doo-doo. Sometimes it is a thin layer of ice on top of a very deep, very cold puddle. I have managed (knock wood) not to fall on the ice at all this year. I am feeling pretty good about my snow walking skills now, too. So maybe one of the reasons I like snow is that it provides a challenge that I am able to meet.

But, I think the real answer came out when I was discussing the snow with a friend. He also loves the snow. Being from Northern Ohio, Columbus is a bit of a disappointment where snowfall is concerned. After all, significant snowfall here is 2-4 inches. That's just a light dusting where he comes from.

I asked him why he liked the snow. He told me that he thought it was mostly nostalgia. It got me to thinking why I liked the snow. I decided that I liked it because I liked the way it looked on the trees and because it quieted the city. Both are true. I love waking up in the morning after a snowfall and seeing all the trees, bushes, cars, houses...everything covered with a clean layer of white; still undisturbed by feet and shovels and salt trucks. Everything is slightly muffled and the city is quieter and looks cleaner. You can hear the blood rushing in your ears. It reminds me that I am alive, still.

When I was in my twenties and early thirties I would actually wake up during snow falls. I couldn't sleep. It was almost as if there were an electrical charge to the snow. I remember being pregnant with Michael and waking up suddenly, as if some one called my name, only to find that it was snowing. Then sitting at the picture window of our first apartment looking across to a ravine and watching the trees fill up with snow. It was breathtaking. I just sat there in silence and watched the snow.

So, I guess if I boil it down to the heart of the matter, it is nostalgia. It is remembrances of learning to drive, of sledding down the ravine hill across the street from our house in Clintonville, of standing up to my hips in the snow after the blizzard of '78 (snow so deep that we couldn't sled!), and of "School without Schools" that February. Memories of taking Joe and Sarah out to sled and coming home to hot chocolate or warm cider and fresh cookies. Memories of my first apartment and preparing to have our first child. It is the memory of sitting on my mommy's lap hearing her tell me about a dry, barren place where the magic of snow never happens and hearing her spin the magic into a lifelong joy that springs up every time I see flakes of white falling from the sky.

I can't wait for it to snow again...

Driving

I will always remember the anniversary of the day I got my driver's license. It is the day after my youngest brother's birthday.

The 1976 Grand LeMans Safari Wagon
She served me long and well.

I was scheduled to take my driving test on February 12th, 1986, but, on February 11th when I arrived home from play practice, my mom informed me that she was in labor, most likely, and that she probably wouldn't be able to take me. Looking back, I am sure that she thought I was mad at her, but really I was not. I was excited that the baby was FINALLY coming, but still, disappointed that I would have to wait to get my license. Mom suggested that I call my Aunt Sharon, who, though she could not take me on the 12th, could take me the next day. And, thankfully, the testing station at Delaware was willing to move the date for me. They were SO nice.

The Mighty Duster
Save for the sporty pinstriping on the side,
this is what she looked like.

I drove with my aunt to Delaware from Columbus in my parents' 1976 Pontiac Grand LeMans Safari Wagon. If you have never seen one of these, it is huge. So big that it comes with it's own zip code and area code. When the test administrator came out to get in the car she said, "Honey, are you sure you want to take manuverability in that thing?" I told her that my other choice was a 1969 Plymouth Duster with no power steering. She agreed that this might be the better choice. I passed the test with an almost perfect score. (I pulled too far forward to see around a corner.) and I had my license!!

Aunt Sharon took me to Friendly's to celebrate. I was so happy.

But nothing in the world was more sweet than being able to take my brother over to the hospital (all by myself) to see our new baby brother (at that time, children under 14 were absolutely not allowed in the hospital to visit, so my other brother and sister had to stay home). Weighing in at 12 lbs. 3 ozs. and 26.5" long, he was twice the size of some of the babies in the nursery and he was beautiful. And, I must say, after seeing him just last night...he still is!

But when I told my kids that tomorrow was the 22nd anniversary of getting my driver's license, they were, like, "So?"...I guess they just don't get the excitement of being behind the wheel and being in control of what you are doing and where you are going. In time, they will come to understand. It's like being the president of your own little country. You're in control of communications and media ("I pick the radio station"), you are in charge of laws ("Don't eat in my car and don't kick the seat.") and you are in charge of justice ("Do that again and you are walking home, kid."). Heck, when you drive a 1976 Pontiac Grand LeMans Safari Wagon and it really is your own little country.

I wonder if I get a UN delegate with that car?