Good advice comes back to haunt him

By Donna E. Glausser, Special to the Times
Published June 24, 2007

When I heard that loud, awful scraping sound of metal on metal, I had just turned left from Wainbell onto Peermont in my father's ultra-wide charcoal Oldsmobile four-door sedan. Sue, my 11-year-old sister, yelped from the back seat and I jammed on the brake right in front of Candy Lewis' house.

The summer of 1960, Dad insisted I take both typing and driver training classes. In the latter, we watched a lot of grainy movies of capable California drivers motor across broad, flat thoroughfares, took practice tests on the Pennsylvania Driver's Manual and finessed our road skills. The football coach, two other students and I wound around hilly back streets and through parking lots in a red and white Ford Falcon, a small car for that time. I even mastered the coach's trick for parallel parking. I would not be like Mother, afraid to drive.

My father loved every automobile he owned - as in loved with a capital "L." And he chose supersized ones: bulbous Plymouths, wide Oldsmobiles, hefty Dodges and elongated Buicks. He spent many a warm evening in the company of a hose and sudsy bucket as he gleamed the chrome rocket ships, massive grille and bumpers and caressed his latest's beauty with a soft chamois. He even paid Mrs. Polino, the lady across from us, rent for a garage, rather than park his auto in the street.

"Got to put the car to bed, " he'd announce each evening after KDKA's News at 11, rattling his keys as Buttons, our Boston terrier, raced him to the door.

The year before I got my learner's permit, he traded the aqua and white Olds "88, " bought during Mother's turquoise period for this Super 88 model. He lectured me, as a future driver, that this "2-ton" steel machine could be lethal.

"Now be careful, " he said that morning before I left on my first solo trip.

I let out an exasperated sigh and a smart "Yeah, yeah, yeah."

Mother made me take Sue. That made me mad because I planned to show off to my friend Ellen, who lived a mere three blocks away.

We never made it.

At the scene of the crash, neighbor women in printed cotton aprons with clingy barefoot children came out to their porches to gawk while a few beer-bellied men sauntered down the steps to scrutinize the damage and cluck to each other about women drivers.

My palms dampened the skinny, 18-inch steering wheel after the Dormont Police pulled up. I closed my eyes, leaned my forehead on the column's center orbit, shushed Sue and waited for trouble.

All of a sudden, Dad rapped on the window. I guess somebody telephoned him.

I rolled the glass down in time with the cadence of my heart. "Lub dub, lub dub, lub dub."

"What happened?" he asked. His face was nearly as gray as the car paint.

"I moved over to get outta the way of a car goin' up the other side of the street and got too close to the parked one."

Dad shook his head, pursed his lips and fished out some cards from his wallet for "Brownie, " the policeman.

I felt nauseous. I'd never be allowed to drive again. I'd have to ride the streetcar for the rest of my life, just like my mother.

Sue bounced up and down on the long vinyl bench seat and stuck her head out the back window.

"Let's go, let's go. Dad, you drive. Donna crashes."

She sounded gleeful.

As it turned out, Dad's car had a thick, protruding band of chrome that ran all 217 inches from nose to tail. The strip scraped the front half of the parked Chevy's left side but protected the Oldsmobile from serious harm.

Nevertheless, for several weeks, I suffered from acute embarrassment and occasional taunts from Sue.

After a period of humble penance, one Saturday morning I took a deep breath and blurted, "Mother wants me to take her down to Kroger's."

The color in Dad's face drained. He swallowed twice. I thought he might choke, but then he cleared his throat and said, "Remember, " in a deep space commander's voice, "it's not a toy."

I nodded, mirrored his solemn face and reached for the keys.

Thereafter, he repeated that phrase before every excursion. To me, to Sue, to my other sister Robin and even to my kids, when they drove off in my narrow compact.

"Remember, it's not a toy, " I shouted to my now 77-year-old father as he reversed his bulky Buick down my driveway. He grinned back at me and saluted.

Donna E. Glausser is a Tampa writer.

[Last modified June 22, 2007, 15:59:34]