Left Turns
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02-03-2010, 04:56 PM,
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Left Turns
A little long but a great read if you haven't already seen it, enjoy!!
> This is a wonderful piece by Michael Gartner, editor of newspapers > large and small and president of NBC News. In 1997, he won > thePulitzer Prize for editorial writing. It is well worth reading, > and a few good chuckles are guaranteed. Here goes... > > My father never drove a car. Well, that's not quite right. I > should say I never saw him drive a car. > > He quit driving in 1927, when he was 25 years old, and the last > car he drove was a 1926 Whippet.. > > "In those days," he told me when he was in his 90s, "to drive a > car you had to do things with your hands, and do things with your > feet, and look every which way, and I decided you could walk > through life and enjoy it or drive through life and miss it." > > At which point my mother, a sometimes salty Irishwoman, chimed in: > "Oh, bull----!" she said. "He hit a horse." > > "Well," my father said, "there was that, too." > > So my brother and I grew up in a household without a car. The > neighbors all had cars -- the Kollingses next door had a green 1941 > Dodge, the VanLaninghams across the street a gray 1936 Plymouth, > the Hopsons two doors down a black 1941 Ford -- but we had none. > > My father, a newspaperman in Des Moines , would take the > streetcar to work and, often as not, walk the 3 miles home. If he > took the streetcar home, my mother and brother and I would walk the > three blocks to the streetcar stop, meet him and walk home together. > > My brother, David, was born in 1935, and I was born in 1938, and > sometimes, at dinner, we'd ask how come all the neighbors had cars > but we had none. "No one in the family drives," my mother would > explain, and that was that. > > But, sometimes, my father would say, "But as soon as one of you > boys turns 16, we'll get one." It was as if he wasn't sure which > one of us would turn 16 first. > > But, sure enough , my brother turned 16 before I did, so in 1951 > my parents bought a used 1950 Chevrolet from a friend who ran the > parts department at a Chevy dealership downtown. > > It was a four-door, white model, stick shift, fender skirts, > loaded with everything, and, since my parents didn't drive, it more > or less became my brother's car. > > Having a car but not being able to drive didn't bother my > father, but it didn't make sense to my mother. > > So in 1952, when she was 43 years old, she asked a friend to > teach her to drive. She learned in a nearby cemetery, the place > where I learned to drive the following year and where, a generation > later, I took my two sons to practice driving. The cemetery > probably was my father's idea. "Who can your mother hurt in the > cemetery?" I remember him saying more than once. > > For the next 45 years or so, until she was 90, my mother was the > driver in the family. Neither she nor my father had any sense of > direction, but he loaded up on maps -- though they seldom left the > city limits -- and appointed himself navigator. It seemed to work. > > Still, they both continued to walk a lot. My mother was a devout > Catholic, and my father an equally devout agnostic, an arrangement > that didn't seem to bother either of them through their 75 years of > marriage. > > (Yes, 75 years, and they were deeply in love the entire time.) > > He retired when he was 70, and nearly every morning for the next > 20 years or so, he would walk with her the mile to St. Augustin's > Church. > She would walk down and sit in the front pew, and he would wait in > the back until he saw which of the parish's two priests was on duty > that morning. If it was the pastor, my father then would go out and > take a 2-mile walk, meeting my mother at the end of the service and > walking her home. > > If it was the assistant pastor, he'd take just a 1-mile walk and > then head back to the church. He called the priests "Father Fast" > and "Father Slow." > > After he retired, my father almost always accompanied my mother > whenever she drove anywhere, even if he had no reason to go along. > If she were going to the beauty parlor, he'd sit in the car and > read, or go take a stroll or, if it was summer, have her keep the > engine running so he could listen to the Cubs game on the radio. In > the evening, then, when I'd stop by, he'd explain: "The Cubs lost > again. The millionaire on second base made a bad throw to the > millionaire on first base, so the multimillionaire on third base > scored." > > If she were going to the grocery store, he would go along to > carry the bags out -- and to make sure she loaded up on ice cream. > As I said, he was always the navigator, and once, when he was 95 > and she was 88 and still driving, he said to me, "Do you want to > know the secret of a long life?" > > "I guess so," I said, knowing it probably would be something > bizarre. > > "No left turns," he said. > > "What?" I asked. > > "No left turns," he repeated. "Several years ago, your mother > and I read an article that said most accidents that old people are > in happen when they turn left in front of oncoming traffic. > > As you get older, your eyesight worsens, and you can lose your > depth perception, it said. So your mother and I decided never again > to make a left turn." > > "What?" I said again. > > "No left turns," he said. "Think about it. Three rights are the > same as a left, and that's a lot safer. So we always make three > rights." > > "You're kidding!" I said, and I turned to my mother for support. > "No," she said, "your father is right. We make three rights. It > works." > But then she added: "Except when your father loses count." > > I was driving at the time, and I almost drove off the road as I > started laughing. > > "Loses count?" I asked. > > "Yes," my father admitted, "that sometimes happens. But it's not > a problem. You just make seven rights, and you're okay again." > > I couldn't resist. "Do you ever go for 11?" I asked. > > "No," he said " If we miss it at seven, we just come home and > call it a bad day. Besides, nothing in life is so important it > can't be put off another day or another week." > My mother was never in an accident, but one evening she handed > me her car keys and said she had decided to quit driving. That was > in 1999, when she was 90. > > She lived four more years, until 2003. My father died the next > year, at 102. > > They both died in the bungalow they had moved into in 1937 and > bought a few years later for $3,000. (Sixty years later, my brother > and I paid $8,000 to have a shower put in the tiny bathroom -- the > house had never had one. My father would have died then and there > if he knew the shower cost nearly three times what he paid for the > house.) > > He continued to walk daily -- he had me get him a treadmill when > he was 101 because he was afraid he'd fall on the icy sidewalks but > wanted to keep exercising -- and he was of sound mind and sound > body until the moment he died. > > One September afternoon in 2004, he and my son went with me when > I had to give a talk in a neighboring town, and it was clear to all > three of us that he was wearing out, though we had the usual wide- > ranging conversation about politics and newspapers and things in > the news. > > A few weeks earlier, he had told my son, "You know, Mike, the > first hundred years are a lot easier than the second hundred." At > one point in our drive that Saturday, he said, "You know, I'm > probably not going to live much longer." > > "You're probably right," I said. > > "Why would you say that?" He countered, somewhat irritated. > > "Because you're 102 years old," I said.. > > "Yes," he said, "you're right." He stayed in bed all the next day. > > That night, I suggested to my son and daughter that we sit up > with him through the night. > > He appreciated it, he said, though at one point, apparently > seeing us look gloomy, he said: > "I would like to make an announcement. No one in this room is > dead yet" > > An hour or so later, he spoke his last words: > > "I want you to know," he said, clearly and lucidly, "that I am > in no pain. I am very comfortable. And I have had as happy a life > as anyone on this earth could ever have." > > A short time later, he died. > > I miss him a lot, and I think about him a lot. I've wondered now > and then how it was that my family and I were so lucky that he > lived so long. > > I can't figure out if it was because he walked through life, > Or because he quit taking left turns. " > > Life is too short to wake up with regrets. > So love the people who treat you right. > Forget about the one's who don't. > > Believe everything happens for a reason. > If you get a chance,take it & if it changes your life, let it. > Nobody said life would be easy, they just promised it would > most likely be worth it." |
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02-03-2010, 10:29 PM,
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Re: Left Turns
I think that was a very nice piece. Thank you for doing it
Richard Hagen. AKA grumpie |
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02-04-2010, 06:50 PM,
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Re: Left Turns
Yeah, great story.
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