Drive-through

Remember the car rides of your past?

My Uncle A. sometimes drove us kids around town--it was a joy ride, with laughs and money for 7-Eleven Slurpees [giant, freezing cold, garishly colored drinks that sounded much better than they were]. Later, after he married Aunt C., they both came often from the Bronx on Sundays--stopping in Bergenfield for a dozen assorted Dunkin' Donuts, a grace offering, packed in three fat rows in that signature pink box. After dinner, I'd watch my aunt and uncle pull away in their blue Nova. Uncle A. always had the seat reclined so far back, I don't know how he saw over the steering wheel.

Other times, I watched the city go by from the back seat of my family's white Ford Falcon, as my Dad drove us home from visiting our grandparents. The George Washington Bridge loomed so big, with its great gray cables. My brother W. and I dozed off in the back seat as the car bumped over potholes, the bridge lights twinkled and the billboards along the West Side Highway spoke to us.

My mother was a nervous driver. When my father drove the highways, she'd pump the imaginary brake on her side. "John! John!" she'd say. It made me nervous, too. Later, when she was behind the wheel of the four-door beige Chevy Nova, merging onto Route 17 to get to Alexander's [her favorite bargain emporium], she'd panic. We'd have to stop talking till she made the merge. It was scary, as trucks and cars raced aggressively by--surely headed somewhere more important than our destination, to pick through the racks of house dresses and piles of sandals.

On long drives to Cape Cod, she'd drape her bare arm over the back of the front seat. From my spot sandwiched in the center of the back seat, I liked to touch the soft skin on her hands or the dainty square diamond on her engagement ring. After making her jump a few times, she told me to cut that out.

Then there was Mr. D's car. He was a neighbor who lived over on Sycamore Road. He'd magically appear on rainy days, pulling over to offer me a ride when I walked to St. Mary's. Sitting next to him in my blue plaid uniform with blue vest, white short-sleeved shirt and navy knee socks, I puzzled over the tick tock tick tock while we waited to make the turn at the corner of Bedford and New Milford, by the high school. I stared at the small plastic Virgin Mary on the dashboard and wondered. Was this a special clock or gadget? Took me a while to figure out that it was the turn signal; the one in my parents' car, and in Uncle A.'s, was silent.

Later, we had a green Datsun, which was fun and cute. And when my sister inherited the Ford Falcon, she'd take me all around, and we'd listen to her Bob Dylan and Cat Stevens eight-track tapes.

Since the fathers carpooled to evening Girl Scout meetings, I also remember Mr. T's big roomy green car and Mr. C's wood-paneled station wagon.

Not one of my four grandparents ever owned or drove a car. How far have we come? And is it better or worse?

Today I spent 1 hour and 45 minutes driving home from my Dad's, which is 35 minutes away. I listened to NPR; I talked to the dog, who loves visiting my Dad too, starts jumping around when you use the words "go," "see" and "grandpa" in the same sentence. The traffic on Route 4 West was at a standstill due to an accident. I was bored. I picked up the phone. "That's illegal," said the man in a gray van next to me, his words floating out through his open window.

Embarrassed, I turned the phone off. And plodded doggedly home, over the river and through the woods [well, more like over the asphalt and through the town], to pick Fig up at her friend's house.