Diana often reminds me that my cultural references tend toward the time of World War II, as opposed to Trump’s debacle with Iran.
Once in Vermont during our ten-day New England excursion (not a weekend, exactly), I found my consciousness altered by strange chewy candies, parked in front of a television, watching Cheers and Beavis and Butt-Head. It occurred to me that since Pints&disunion, my contact with younger people has plummeted to near zero.
Concurrently, I’ve aged even beyond my existing chronology; as noted here previously, thanks to my father, the atmosphere around the house growing up was so rooted in the 30s and 40s that it sometimes seems to me that I personally witnessed the Big Band Era and Ted Williams’ prime.
But the worst of it was our rental car.
The vehicle itself was fine, some sort of mid-sized SUV (gasp) with more than a few bells and whistles. Between the base price and gasoline, the expense would have been enough for each of us to purchase a week-long railpass in Germany or Italy, and not have to drive at all. Contemplating this very nearly drove me insane.
As proof of what you should already know, that I’ve never “liked” cars or enjoyed driving, note the make and model of our rental: ____ , which is to say I can’t remember it. The SUV was dark colored, probably twice the size of my 2009 Ford Fusion, and maybe a Mazda.
A Mazda is a car, right? I had a Chevy Monza in 1980.
Diana did most of the driving. That’s because she’s one of the three best drivers I’ve known in my life (the late TR and Lynn are the others), and I’m merely competent at best.
Upon settling in at Logan, I surveyed the area behind the steering wheel and proclaimed, “WTF — it’s the starship Enterprise.” My Fusion, which was my mother’s (I swear it’ll reach 90,000 miles soon) plainly has more in common with bandleader Glenn Miller’s car than our rental SUV.
And here, at last, is the point: every last one of you reading today is wondering how I might be so insulated from decades of automobiling achievement. You’re entirely accustomed to screens, safety beeps, and robots telling you where to turn and when to breathe.
Meanwhile I engage the transmission, roll out onto the Spring Street Raceway, and coax my Fusion to 30 m.p.h in...Read more
