Episode 1: Down The Road We Go

2018.FEB.11

Since my father voluntarily relinquished his driver's license a few years ago, I have become his primary chauffeur. 

Living as we do, out in the boondocks of eastern Nevada, it has become our weekly ritual to go into Ely for groceries and supplies. Once in a while, we shop in West Wendover, instead. Either way, it's a four-hour excursion.

Being as we are both extreme introverts, our shopping trips aren't exactly a gab fest. On these days we may only talk a combined total of less than 15 minutes and that includes label-reading time, inside the store. 

• Dad has Macular Degeneration, and he shops mostly by navigational routine; knowing where the items are that he wants -- but he still needs his "seeing-eye-shopper" to shore up the details.("Salted or unsalted?"; "Chocolate graham crackers or cinnamon?";  "That's not cottage cheese ...") Grocery shopping is pretty much the indoors version of  "Riding in the Car With Dad".

The discourse between us is usually incredibly banal: "Where do you need to go today?"

"Oh, just Ridley's and Bath (Lumber), I guess." 

Now and then there's an extra errand, but our rut is fairly well worn. I usually have a few more stops to make than he does. 

In addition to our two standard destinations (plus the inevitable gas refill), I buzz over to the landfill to make my weekly deposit. Invariably, Dad remarks about the size of the metal heap, and the ridiculousness of landfills, because "Every little town used to have their own dump, and that worked out just fine." And then of course: "The EPA is going to destroy this country."

Dad is very particular about routing, which MUST be accomplished in the most direct way (according to his reckoning); each stop in geographical order, along the shortest possible path. Any detour from the straight-and-narrow sets him on edge. When I first took over the wheel, I learned right away that trolling down a residential street - with STOP SIGNS, Oh my! -- is the wrong thing to do. Also, parking lot exit strategies must "make sense".

For a little while, during the adjustment phase, I became so filled with self-doubt, I began to ask first, before making any turns. "Left or right?" (He still sees well enough to know where we're at in this old familiar town.) "Do you want to go here first, or there?" 

The answer usually was, "You're the driver. Do what you want." .... but any movement out of the ordinary must be explained. 

For instance, once when we left the Post Office, I crossed the lane that is shortest distance back to the main drag (Great Basin Blvd), traversed an entire 'extra' block, and turned left onto the larger thoroughfare. "Why'd you go that way?!!" he needed to know.

"Because I want to turn left at the light. It's easier."

"Oh. OK." He just needs to know that there is logic involved in all traffic decisions.

We have been doing this for about three years now, and he's got me pretty well trained. We rarely encounter any difficulties, and it has been quite a while since I reminded him - sharply, I confess- that I have been driving for nearly 50 years, now.

At the beginning of our tours, Dad had a digital gadget that plugged into the lighter outlet and projected my driving speed in large red numbers onto the windshield. I haven't seen that thing for quite a while.

During our weekly excursions, he fills me in on the latest news from my brother, who calls him regularly every Sunday, and sometimes we discuss current events on the political scene.

This might seem like dangerous territory, given that Dad is a pretty conservative Republican, while I am (by comparison) a flaming liberal.

Nevertheless, I have been pleasantly surprised to discover that we share a few opinions in common. For instance, my father does not oppose women's rights and gay marriage, or a woman's right to decide what she will do with her own body. (Thanks, Mom!!)

• Essentially, Dad seems to me the true ibertarian (not to be confused with Tea Party so-called libertarian), who believes that people ought to be allowed to make their own decisions about personal matters that don't directly involve others. Like pot.

The old man has some serious disdain for organized religion, and he firmly believes in separation of Church and State.

We both believe the BLM is a huge waster of taxpayer dollars. (Dad recalls when "there was one agent in that office, and he took care of everything from mining claims to wood-cutting permits." Of course, there was no Wild Horse and Burro Program, at that time.) 

Best of all: He is not at all impressed with The Donald (or any other politician, if you really want to know the truth of it). 

My dad will be 88 years old in July. I know it hasn't been an easy transition for him, handing over the keys to his youngest girl child (whom he often perceives as several decades younger than the reality). We'll just keep moving on down the road for as long as he will let me drive.

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