Since my Mother has finally reached the ripe old age of 60-ish I decided it was now time to trust her driving instincts. I have no idea what I was thinking. I actually have nothing to base this new found trust on. We are talking about a woman who once hit a parked car and somehow managed to get a pat on the back from the local police as the car she hit belonged to a man that they were looking for. When I was a teenager she sent us careening through a barbwire fence just past the local dairy barn. We bounced through the pasture as she slammed her arm across my chest. It was then that I realized that no one was holding the wheel as she was busy “protecting” me. Then there was the time she hit a tree on the side of the road. Nope she was not drinking. She was swerving to miss a DEAD possum of course.
So now, I’m asking myself “Why would I decide to rely on her driving abilities?” You see, we had gone to the Sonic to grab some cold drinks after a big day of shopping. She pulled out of the drive into oncoming traffic without any problems at all. She’s driving along and she starts with a little road rage. “Why are those idiots slowing down? Oh great! Now they are pulling over! Why are all these people pulling over??” I’m starting to wonder what’s going on so I look up to see cars lining the right side of the road. My dearest Mother is still complaining as I look to the left side of the road. Well, the people in the oncoming traffic are pulling over also. Mommy Dearest then announces “Oh look! There must be a wreck up there. I can see a police car in front.” That’s when I finally look up and see it. We are about the fifth car behind the hearse. Quickly I grab some Kleenex and toss them to Aunt Vivian in the back seat. She holds them to her nose and tries to look mournful. Momma has finally figured out our police escort and starts laughing hysterically. She is crying and wailing beyond control. While I am trying to decide if I should hide in the floor board I look around and realize not only are we in the middle of a funeral procession but this is an all black funeral procession. We are the only crackers in the box. Now I am easing down until my knees are crammed into the glove box. Momma breaks out in more squeals of laughter and I’m praying we can just blend in. My 79 year old Aunt is hyperventilating in the back seat with the tissue crammed against her face trying to shield her identity.
We will now return to my previous method of me driving us to wherever we need to go….