License

 

I got my driver’s license in the early winter of 1960. I had just turned 16, had just passed my tests (both of them—first time!), but it seemed awfully slow to appear in the mail.

On December 25 I found out why: It had arrived earlier, but my parents had agreed to conceal it from me, to put in an envelope on our Christmas tree, knowing full well that I open my on-the-tree gifts last.

Which I did.

And had one of the best Christmases ever.

I last drove quite a few months ago when I began having spells of dizziness and unreliable eyesight. I told Joyce it wasn’t safe for me to risk hurting her—and others.

And so ... unless I undergo some sort of recovery (not likely), I won’t drive ever again.

I miss it so much. I’ve driven all over this country (all the 48 attached states—which seems appropriate since when I was born, both Alaska and Hawaii had still not earned statehood) and parts of Europe. I was chicken to drive in England and Wales, fearing I would lose concentration and end up hitting head-on someone cruising correctly down the proper side of the road. But I did drive a lot in Germany.

Joyce (who shared the driving when we were on trips together) and I have had some great times on the road. Out to see my parents in Oregon—down to Oklahoma to see where I was born-n-raised—to Idaho to see where Hemingway died—to Milledgeville, GA, to see where Flannery O’Connor lived and died—to Grand Manan Island to see where Willa Cather had a summer home—to Key West to see where Hemingway and some other famous writers lived (Tennesse Williams)—to Grand Isle, LA, where we saw the principal settings for The Awakening—to Montgomery, AL, to see where Scott met Zelda—to New England to see many Robert Frost sites—Virginia and Maryland and Pennsylvania and New York to see Poe sites—to Minnesota to see Sinclair Lewis sites—and Scott Fitzgerald sites—all over to see key places in John Brown’s life—to NY to see Stephen Crane sites—California and Jack London places—New Mexico to see Billy the Kid sites—and on and on and on.

Many family trips to New England.

Many trips to Stratford Theatre Festival in Ontario.

Many years to downtown Cleveland to see productions of the Great Lakes Theater Festival.

Friday and Saturday nights at the movies.

Summer evening drives to Stoddard’s Frozen Custard.

To the mall just to walk around and talk.

To the grocery store.

Into our garage when we arrived home—always the best destination

Now, Joyce does all our driving, though I usually don’t go on the errands she runs. My balance is so precarious.

She drives me to my medical appointments all over the place.

And I feel both supremely grateful for that—and supremely sad that I cannot slip behind the wheel, adjust the seat and mirrors, and back out—carefully—into a journey to ... to wherever in the world we want to go.