Dad's Driving

Among the most tedious scenarios imaginable is going to dinner with a married couple as a single person. They argue about a wide range of the most trivial points, often without even realizing they do it. This is all the worse when that couple is my dad and stepmom.

Roughly once a year, they stop by to take me to dinner, and having then discharged their parently duties, move along on their travels through retirement. While I checked the menu, my stepmom insisted, “No, you were speeding,” with the hint of a smirk. Dad looked unhappy, noting “They just lie in wait for out of state license plates,” looking to me for support. “Actually, Dad—I’m a bit afraid to ride with you.”

He looked at me, 1/3 miffed and 2/3 genuinely curious. “Why?” he asked.

Dad has always sped. He used to build mini-racers with his best friends—long friends right through when both of their wives passed away in retirement. He raced the back roads of rural western New York, leaving air beneath the car as he crested hills, disdaining yellow speed warnings as he rounded curves, counting on his self-assessed superior driving skills. This perception continues, as he tailgates cars at high speed, drives without heed even in dangerous weather, and regrets only that he’s forced to share the road with drivers so inferior to himself—the ones for whom traffic laws are written.

One, in a snowstorm that should have prevented travel, Dad insisted on driving me to my music lesson (as I finished shoveling two feet of snow from the driveway, and much to the astonishment of my music teacher). “We can make it,” he insisted. We did. Another time, he hit a kid on a bicycle. Things like this aren’t discussed in my family, so I know only what little I could gather—that the parents sued, that a settlement was reached, and to my dad, clearly the problem was the kid pulling out on his bicycle. Yet another time, while Dad was giving me a ride to school, I warned him that a certain curve, almost a U-turn, was certainly a 20 m.p.h. zone as posted. “Really?’ Dad asked, as he pulled around it at twice the speed. Thrown to the other side of the road, all he offered was, “I guess so. That IS a sharp curve.” I was just glad no cars were coming down the hill in the other direction.

I’m not unappreciative. I got to every music lesson. I got to every rehearsal. I got to every Scout meeting, every swim lesson, every campout. That 20 m.p.h. curve was on the way to a professional meeting—my dad got up at four to drive an hour to my home, pick me up, and drive me an hour to a 7 a.m. meeting when my car was in the shop. He then drove me home at the end of the day and took me to pick up my car. And let's not forget those four hour trips to and from college.

Once, my teenage fight with my mom boiled over into all out war—horrible things were said, mom resorted to throwing things, and I left. I had no prospects and nowhere to go, of course, so when I calmed down a bit, I had to call. Dad picked up the phone, and calmly, quietly asked, “Are you ready to come home?” I was. “Where are you?” he said simply. He picked me up. No lecture, no scowl—just a ride home. End of the matter.

Ironically, my daredevil dad taught me to drive (when my mom gave up in frustration over our battles). These lessons became habits I practice to this day. Always signal, even at 3 a.m. when no one’s around to see. Always check all around the car when merging. Not to mention change the oil, change the oil, change the oil—and rotate the tires. I drove my last car 199,974 miles before it threw a rod. Safety, safety, safety.

I’m no saint. When I broke my collarbone in karate, for example, my sister listened to the account, then observed, “You were showing off, weren’t you?” Don’t you hate it when someone knows you that well?

I AM a careful driver—cautious, looking ahead, defensive, keeping my ego in check as other drivers act recklessly. Except in the morning when I’m in a hurry and running late. And that I often drive when I’m tired. And distracted. Kinda mitigates all that safety, doesn’t it?

To lower my insurance, I took a six hour driving course. Now that I’ve taken a few, I recommend them (although this depends greatly on the instructor)—I learned far more than I’d have thought. My dad approved, noting that my stepmom takes one every year through AARP. No mention of Dad needing or taking one.

A key difference between Dad and me is that I drive to get places. It just needs doing. Dad drives because he loves to drive. He doesn’t need a reason. The morning of my mother’s funeral, he had to run errands. I went with him. We needed salt for the water softener. We needed tomatoes—roma tomatoes, since they’re best in salads, and we had a lot of people coming to the house. We had to stop for a lottery ticket—hey, you never know. The essentials. Dad needed to drive.

Long retired, Dad drives. He drives to Florida for half the year from central New York, relishing the trip I would dread. He travels all over the U.S. and Canada, just as he did on vacations before retirement—he and my mom drove to Alaska twice. I got a postcard this week from Arizona—as far west as I have ever been—Dad’s on his way to visit California. Doesn’t know for sure when he’ll be back.

One day, age will betray me. I worry about this. I live far out in the country, and I cherish my home. We don’t have busses or taxies, and I can’t simply walk to the grocery store or the pharmacy. When I can no longer drive, I don’t know what I will do.

When not traveling, my dad and stepmom live much closer to civilization. My dad is in excellent health, but one day, when he can no longer drive, I don’t know what he’ll do.

Writer

Igg, Ogg, and the Creation of Taxes

“Igg? I’m tired of all this huntin’ and gatherin’.”

Igg looked at Ogg. “Me too,” he sighed.

“So what say,” Ogg continued, “We raise all these plants and animals ourselves? No more rushin’ around!”

“Now that’s a plan!” agreed Igg. And so agriculture began.

Wisely, Igg and Ogg weren’t quick to quit hunting and gathering, since at first they were largely unsuccessful. They realized eventually that timing played a crucial role.

“Igg? How are we gonna know when exactly to plant?” asked Ogg.

“Hmmm...I know a guy who can read the stars to calculate the seasons...” suggested Igg.

The ancient astronomer got the job, under the title of Priest.

Igg and Ogg prospered, encouraging others to follow their example. All the Priest’s friends got jobs, creating organized religion.

One day, Igg and Ogg toured their plantation along the riverbank and noticed a disturbing trend--less and less water reached their crops. Taking a walk upstream, they soon saw why: many new converts to agriculture were diverting the river’s water to irrigate their crops. When questioned, these new farmers invariably replied, “We have to make a living too!”

On the way back downstream, Igg and Ogg talked to several other farmers who also complained about the dwindling water supply. Consequently, Igg and Ogg organized a meeting of all the riverside crop growers. After considerable debate, the farming community realized that water rights must be controlled by a central authority, thus creating law, government, and bureaucracy. Civilization was born.

The new village thrived at first, but some of the farmers failed to honor the water rights agreements. Igg and Ogg called another meeting, and soon enforcement of the law fell to the newly created police force. Further, to ensure the fairness of police enforcement, a new judicial system and penal code arose. The village rejoiced.

Unfortunately, so did the nomads in the mountains above the village. “Look!” they advised each other, “These people work all year and create all this food in one place, ready for the taking! Mount your horses!” And so they did, in a devastating raid. War had entered the world.

The village did not rejoice. “All our hard work! Our families will starve! We must protect ourselves!” Another village meeting instituted an army.

But Igg and Ogg had an additional concern. “The village has priests and governors and legislators and police and justices and lawyers and soldiers and commanders,” explained Igg, “But the village needs these people to commit so much time to their professions that they can no longer realistically take the time to raise their own food.” After a long silence, Ogg suggested,” Suppose each farmer raises a little more than needed for mere self-sufficiency? Then, the surplus could go to the professionals necessary for the security of the village.” Long debate followed, but necessity instituted the plan. Taxes had entered the world. And to help keep tax records, mathematics and writing soon followed.

Life was wonderful thereafter. People invented leisure time and explored human existence by creating and practicing various arts and sciences. People also continued to learn to work together, specializing in various trades, providing new products and professional services. Education strove to ensure and expand village life, thought, and culture. But, unfortunately, greed was not limited to the mountain nomads.

“It’s YOUR money!” proclaimed Ugg in his bid for village government. “Every year since this village started, more and more of your hard earned money goes toward supporting Big Government!”

Igg listened, confused. “But those taxes pay for the services necessary to run this village,” he countered.

“Wasteful spending! Tax and spend! Tax and spend!” continued Ugg.

“Shouldn’t we then trim the waste, if that’s so, rather than cut revenue?” asked Igg.

“You see,” explained the Priest, “Cutting taxes will actually increase government revenue.”

“So, if instead of tithing,” retorted Igg, “People only gave five percent, church revenue would increase?” The Priest kept quiet.

“Cutting taxes stimulates the economy!” shouted Ugg. “It creates jobs!”

“Given certain circumstances, I suppose that’s theoretically possible,” mused Igg, “But such a blanket proposition makes several unsupported assumptions. For example, won’t trimming spending also cost jobs? And doesn’t government spending ALSO enter the economy?”

Ogg had doubts too. “Cutting taxes means cutting services,” he explained, “Services we instituted with good reason. Important, necessary services.”

Ugg didn’t seem to hear. “This slow economy means we MUST cut taxes NOW! The more cuts, the more the stimulus! And private industry in this great village of ours can best provide services to our wonderful people!”

Igg turned to Ogg. “Does he mean that cutting all taxes would best benefit the village?”

Ogg considered. “Well...if not by taxes, the village would need to exploit natural resources, or consistently plunder other villages, or institute slaves to produce excess revenue.”

“And privatizing government services,” added Igg, “Would mean that police, justice, armed forces and so forth would only be for hire. Further, the large landowners would benefit most from lower taxes, at least in the short run, because only those families could afford education. Our village’s professional talents would atrophy.”

Ugg’s enthusiasm had now attracted quite an audience, drawn by promises of invading the mountains to conquer the nomads, cutting the forests to increase village resources, and asking all citizens to sacrifice for the good of the village in order to make tax cuts possible and to eliminate government interference in their affairs. Nationalism was born.

Igg and Ogg looked at each other once more, then turned and walked toward the forest, while it would still be possible to hunt and gather.

Writer