Guest guest Posted February 13, 2008 Report Share Posted February 13, 2008 > > This is a wonderful piece by Gartner, editor of newspapers > large and small and president of NBC News. In 1997, he won the > Pulitzer Prize for editorial writing. It is well worth reading, and > a few good chuckles are guaranteed. > > My father never drove a car. Well, that's not quite right. I > should say I never saw him drive a car. > > He quit driving in 1927, when he was 25 years old, and the last > car he drove was a 1926 Whippet. > > 'In those days,' he told me when he was in his 90s, 'to drive a > car you had to do things with your hands, and do things with your > feet, and look every which way, and I decided you could walk through > life and enjoy it or drive through life and miss it.' > > At which point my mother, a sometimes salty Irishwoman, chimed i n: > 'Oh, bull----!' she said. 'He hit a horse.' > > 'Well,' my father said, 'there was that, too.' > > So my brother and I grew up in a household without a car. The > neighbors all had cars -- the Kollingses next door had a green 1941 > Dodge, the VanLaninghams across the street a gray 1936 Plymouth, the > Hopsons two doors down a black 1941 Ford -- but we had none. > > My father, a newspaperman in Des Moines, would take the streetcar > to work and, often as not, walk the 3 miles home. If he took the > streetcar home, my mother and brother and I would walk the three > blocks to the streetcar stop, meet him and walk home together. > > My brother, , was born in 1935, and I was born in 1938, and > sometimes, at dinner, we'd ask how come all the neighbors had cars > but we had none. 'No one in the family drives,' my mother would > explain, and that was that. > > But, sometimes, my father would say, 'But as soon as one of you > boys turns 16, we'll get one.' It was as if he wasn't sure which one > of us would turn 16 first. > > But, sure enough , my brother turned 16 before I did, so in 1951 > my parents bought a used 1950 Chevrolet from a friend who ran the > parts department at a Chevy dealership downtown. > > It was a four-door, white model, stick shift, fender skirts, > loaded with everything, and, since my parents didn't drive, it more > or less became my brother's car. > > Having a car but not being able to drive didn't bother my father, > but it didn't make sense to my mother. > > So in 1952, when she was 43 years old, she asked a friend to > teach her to drive. She learned in a nearby cemetery, the place > where I learned to drive the following year and where, a generation > later, I took my two sons to practice driving. The cemetery probably > was my father's idea. 'Who can your mother hurt in the cemetery?' I > remember him saying more than once. > > For the next 45 years or so, until she was 90, my mother was the > driver in the family. Neither she nor my father had any sense of > direction, but he loaded up on maps -- though they seldom left the > city limits -- and appointed himself navigator. It seemed to work. > > Still, they both continued to walk a lot. My mother was a devout > Catholic, and my father an equally devout agnostic, an arrangement > that didn't seem to bother either of them through their 75 years of > marriage. > > (Yes, 75 years, and they were deeply in love the entire time.) > > He retired when he was 70, and nearly every morning for the next > 20 years or so, he would walk with her the mile to St. Augustin's > Church. > She would walk down and sit in the front pew, and he would wait in > the back until he saw which of the parish's two priests was on duty > that morning. If it was the pastor, my father then would go out and > take a 2-mile walk, meeting my mother at the end of the service and > walking her home. > > If it was the assistant pastor, he'd take just a 1-mile walk and > then head back to the church. He called the priests 'Father Fast' > and 'Father Slow. > After he retired, my father almost always accompanied my mother > whenever she drove anywhere, even if he had no reason to go along. > If she were going to the beauty parlor, he'd sit in the car and > read, or go take a stroll or, if it was summer, have her keep the > engine running so he could listen to the Cubs game on the radio. In > the evening, then, when I'd stop by, he'd explain: 'The Cubs lost > again. The millionaire on second base made a bad throw to the > millionaire on first base, so the multimillionaire on third base > scored.' > > If she were going to the grocery store, he would go along to > carry the bags out -- and to make sure she loaded up on ice cream. > As I said, he was always the navigator, and once, when he was 95 and > she was 88 and still driving, he said to me, 'Do you want to know > the secret of a long life?' > > 'I guess so,' I said, knowing it probably would be something bizarre. > > 'No left turns,' he said . > > 'What?' I asked. > > 'No left turns,' he repeated. 'Several years ago, your mother and > I read an article that said most accidents that old people are in > happen when they turn left in front of oncoming traffic. > > As you get older, your eyesight worsens, and you can lose your > depth perception, it said. So your mother and I decided never again > to make a left turn.' > > 'What?' I said again. > > 'No left turns,' he said. 'Think about it. Three rights are the > same as a left, and that's a lot safer. So we always make three > rights.' > > 'You're kidding!' I said, and I turned to my mother for support > 'No,' she said, 'your father is right. We make three rights. It > works.' > But then she added: 'Except when your father loses count.' > > I was driving at the time, and I almost drove off the road as I > started laughing. > > 'Loses count?' I asked. > > 'Yes,' my father admitted, 'that sometimes happens. But it's not > a problem. You just make seven rights, and you're okay again.' > > I couldn't resist. 'Do you ever go for 11?' I asked. > > 'No,' he said ' If we miss it at seven, we just come home and > call it a bad day. Besides, nothing in life is so important it > can't be put off another day or another week.' > > My mother was never in an accident, but one evening she handed me > her car keys and said she had decided to quit driving. That was in > 1999, when she was 90. > > She lived four more years, until 2003. My father died the next > year, at 102. > > They both died in the bungalow they had moved into in 1937 and > bought a few years later for $3,000. (Sixty years later, my brother > and I paid $8,000 to have a shower put in the tiny bathroom -- the > house had never had one. My father would have died then and there if > he knew the shower cost nearly three times what he paid for the house.) > > He continued to walk daily -- he had me get him a treadmill when > he was 101 because he was afraid he'd fall on the icy sidewalks but > wanted to keep exercising -- and he was of sound mind and sound body > until the moment he died. > > One September afternoon in 2004, he and my son went with me when > I had to give a talk in a neighboring town, and it was clear to all > three of us that he was wearing out, though we had the usual > wide-ranging conversation about politics and newspapers and things > in the news. > > A few weeks earlier, he had told my son, 'You know, Mike, the > first hundred years are a lot easier than the second hundred.' At > one point in our drive that Saturday, he said, 'You know, I'm > probably not going to live much longer.' > > 'You're probably right,' I said. > > 'Why would you say that?' He countered, somewhat irritated. > > 'Because you're 102 years old,' I said. > > 'Yes,' he said, 'you're right.' He stayed in bed all the next day. > > That night, I suggested to my son and daughter that we sit up > with him through the night. > > He appreciated it, he said, though at one point, apparently > seeing us look gloomy, he said: > > 'I would like to make an announcement. No one in this room is > dead yet' > > An hour or so later, he spoke his last words: > > 'I want you to know,' he said, clearly and lucidly, 'that I am in > no pain. I am very comfortable. And I have had as happy a life as > anyone on this earth could ever have.' > > A short time later, he died. > > I miss him a lot, and I think about him a lot. I've wondered now > and then how it was that my family and I were so lucky that he lived > so long. > > I can't figure out if it was because he walked through life, > Or because he quit taking left turns. ' > > Life is too short to wake up with regrets. So love the people > who treat you right. Forget about the one's who don't. Believe > everything happens for a reason. If you get a chance, take it. If > it changes your life, let it. Nobody said life would be easy, they > just promised it would most likely be worth it.' Spiritual freedom is my birthright. I am a free thinker. I am able to rise above mental prejudices and stereotypes of others. I am a free thinker. Nobody and nothing can manipulate me or deceive me. I am a free thinker. I freely choose truth and love. Today, I embrace a greater degree of spiritual freedom. ________________________________________________________________________________\ ____ Never miss a thing. Make your home page. http://www./r/hs Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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