We lost my father, Peter, on Thursday, Sept. 28. In the few days since, I’ve had some time to reflect on many memories, not the least of which being our days behind the wheel together. Dad didn’t have the greatest driving record and was not the king of car maintenance, but he did offer sage street advice. And we definitely had some, ahem, moments involving the car.
The second time that I drove with my learner’s permit was with my dad in the passenger seat in the Rehoboth Baptist Church parking lot, after baseball practice.
“I’ve got this,” cocky 15-year-old-me chirped. Dad had to instruct me, after several lurches in our 1986 Sable wagon, that driving with two feet is not the preferred modus operandi. We contemplated this revelation at the Waffle House at the end of the lot.
Another time I helped him sprout some long, silver hair, was my making an ill-timed right turn from Briarcliff Road onto Clairmont. Sure, I stopped at the light, but I didn’t necessarily wait for a gap in the oncoming traffic. We made it seemingly unscathed, though I think his right hand print is still on the inside door handle of that 1981 Malibu.
Dad woke me up one morning quite upset that I had driven that said Chevy around for an indeterminate amount of time with high temps.
“How long has that gauge been on high?!” he exclaimed, as I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and tried to form a defense. I have been much better at car maintenance since, religiously getting my oil changed and fluids checked every 3,000 miles.
I remember telling Dad how overly cautious my defensive driving instructor was. I thought they were over the top in saying a driver should constantly check all mirrors and blind spots. He raised his eyebrow and brought me right back down to Earth on that. He checked his constantly, he said. Dad: 1,954, Doug: zip.
At this point, you probably have my dad pinned down as Red Forman. Not true. He wore shoulder-length hair, a mustache, and a full-brimmed hat. He cranked rock music in the car, where I heard Cake’s “The Distance” the first time. He bought that album for me for my 12th birthday, my first CD. Music in the car with Dad — that opened my mind to a whole new world of art and changed my life. Whether it was 99X or Album 88, my dad helped me discover new, edgy music in the car. And yes, we did also listen to WSB Radio together. He was a big Neal Boortz fan.
I wanted to be Dad behind the wheel. Despite his stern caution and sometimes short fuse, he was some mashup of The Bandit and Dale Earnhardt behind the wheel. Yes, he preferred the fast lane, but he taught me to never be the fastest car in that lane. “Let someone else be the rabbit, that’s who the cops get.” I wasn’t very good at that, as I racked up several speeding tickets in my early 20s. I’ve slowed down since, fittingly.
Because of his schedule flexibility, Dad was one of the “carpool moms” for my friends and I in middle school. I loved riding around with my friends and my cool father. His demeanor and charming irreverence were outliers and I was one of the few kids not embarrassed to be around their folks in public. His being there made me cooler, and “cool” is currency in those years.
No, Dad didn’t teach me to drive a stickshift (I still don’t know how) or how to actually repair the car, but he did set me straight. Whereas my mom spent much more time teaching me the craft, Dad gave me some good resets. But far more importantly, my dad and I have some of our fondest memories behind the wheel. Whether it was seeing him humorously lose his temper, gleefully pump up the volume, write down the directions from my college dorm to WSB, drive my friends and I long distances to academic bowl tournaments, or correct my driving philosophy, nothing will replace our time as a family together on four wheels.
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