Every time I get ready to take a car trip, there’s a sinking pit in my stomach. Do all of the doors open? Is the cell phone charged? Which seat is the safest seat? What’s loose in the car that could decapitate someone? A fireman once told me that the human head pops off like a grape. Will mine? And, should I use the broken seatbelt so that everyone else I’m traveling with is safe?
I begin thinking this is the day-to-day legacy of bad car-ma…
Then, I think, I wasn’t always like this. I realized my family had abnormally bad car-ma when my Aunt asked my Mother how many cars my family has totaled. My Mother’s response? Not the expected response of “one,” “two” or “three.” Instead she requested an innocent clarification: “this year?” -- as if multiple near-death experiences in a short time span were normal, let alone part of a yearly write-off. Maybe the next big tip off was a brother being airlifted off Interstate 5 not six months later. My ultimate discovery: in a single year of auto accidents, my family contributed to hospitals and car dealers more than many people make in a year. A shame; shoes and vacations might have been nicer.
“Drive Safely.” The words always come out like a throw away – yet the meaning goes right to the core of my family’s “I love you.” Drive safely is the ultimate request of love. But, our golden rule never exists because somewhere on the freeway we lose sight of the value of our life against the value of a minute. Drive safely. This command is typically followed by the demand: “Call me when you get home. I don’t care what time it is.” There’s no refusal, only the compromise: let the phone ring twice before hanging up once home is reached. This isn’t just my mother demanding this precaution. My brothers and I do it too. My Grandfather was adamant.
Drive safely. My Mother always asks that angels be put around the car. I believe they listen to her. Perhaps by the conclusion of this, you will too. But, it has nothing to do with faith. It comes from that dark, haunted place where we dare angels to tread.
I wish I could say the entire saga of my family’s car-ma is based on bad driving. It’s not. Of my own three major accidents (and not counting the minor ones), none have been my fault. I swear. I come by it honestly, if one considers genetics honest. My parents: incredibly intelligent, willful and steadfast people. Also my parents: the luckiest unlucky people you’ve ever met – with regard to car-ma. That is the inequity of genetics. Perhaps my parents also came by it honestly: I had a great aunt rode who motorcycles in the 1920’s and a great-Grandfather who polished his car every day even after he couldn’t drive it. Even my Father’s Father seems to plays a role. Perhaps our auto-biography begins before cars could give car-ma its name.
For the moment let’s say that the family’s (un)luck with cars began the moment my parents decided to say “I do.” Young and in love, they were full of enough spunk to cross the country in a car that shouldn’t have made it. The green Volkswagon was christened Marvel, and after the purchase, it was discovered Marvel had no floor. The future only held more: a fan put in backwards, a clutch problem and the necessity of being pushed through toll booths to start in second gear. I wish I could say I was conceived on that trip because there would then be a direct correlation to my own bad car-ma, but no, it would be another three or so years before I became a twinkle in my Mother’s eye. There must be something else, as I promise that Marvel is only the beginning.
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