“Can you call your cousin?” my mom asked me. “Make sure she knows that she is picking up your grandparents.”
“Why? Can’t Grandpa drive?”
“He can but he really shouldn’t. He is getting old, you know.”
“Yeah but we’ve been saying that for 20 years.”
I think the family first considered this when my Grandad first got into a car accident. One of my earliest memories of him was visiting him at the hospital shortly after. He wore a white hospital gown and sat in a wheelchair the entire time. In my memory, we were in this visiting room that was empty save for us, the chairs that were built into the walls obscured by the shadows of the unlit room. The natural light of the outside balanced the lack of any man-made light. The resulting scene is that of a natural sepia, a golden brown that tints the present as nostalgia for the future. A strange way to remember a serious moment. I do remember him smiling as he sat in that wheelchair as my grandmother yelled at him.
My grandpa’s driving has been discussed in my family as a combination of a running joke and a genuine concern. I haven’t driven with my grandpa since I was 15. Back then, I spent my time as a passenger with headphones in my ears and my eyes closed so I am personally not the best judge of his driving. Many secondary sources tell me that to sit in a car with him is the equivalent of playing Russian roulette. I do think that this is a bit of an exaggeration. Then again, I can never be too sure.
Various family members report various statements regarding his driving habits. Some say that his vision in old age has created a decreased reaction time. This results in breaking too close to a point of impact, the brake pads always experiencing a hard slam rather than a gentle squeeze. Many also report that he has a tendency to speed, which to be fair, is more of a cultural habit of drivers in central Maryland. When I asked my father if my grandad used turn signals, Dad simply shrugged and said, “I hope so.”
While I have never heard any reports of my grandad being a road rager, it also seems that he refuses to acknowledge anyone else on the road at all. I can say from experience that he does outside of the driver’s seat as well. My grandmother, the matriarch who really runs my family, is consistent in her nagging, especially to my grandfather.
“Who said you could order pizza?”
“No more candy for the day.”
“Is that bacon.”
My grandfather’s response isn’t usually dismissed but his actions always ignore any sense of warning or potential punishment. It is as if he has psychologically conditioned himself to do and say different things in a half-assed attempt to have his cake and eat it, too.
I remember a time when my grandpa ordered a second cup of coffee at a restaurant. When it arrived, my grandmother said, “Don’t drink any more coffee.”
“Ok,” my grandfather said as he took another sip. He was looking out the window as he said this as if he was covering his eyes to see no evil.
This disregard for others isn’t too much of a problem on the road but it is a huge problem in parking lots. Most of his accidents happened in these tight corridors, where hunks of metal were backing in and out of spaces dictated by white lines painted on blacktop concrete. All of his habits and problems were at the test here: the poor vision, fast driving, the lack of awareness, and disregard all came to ahead here.
Luckily, Granddad has never killed anyone. Even better, he has never died.
It was apparently enough to get the insurance companies to seriously investigate his driving habits. They attached a GPS to his car that would keep track of his driving. My Dad and Uncle were hoping that if my grandfather could maintain good behavior during this parole that he could get his new insurance premium to a new low.
What they found was that my grandfather was driving an average of 50 miles a day. That is 350 miles a week. For some people, that is more than a single full gas tank. It resulted in the insurance company ultimately raising his premiums.
Just where was my grandfather going every day? I know that he had jobs cleaning offices. He also babysat my baby cousins, ages around 13 and 10 years of age.
That said, he spent most of his social time at an elder center for aging Korean citizens. It was basically free with his medicare and he had become a local star thanks to his skills in ping pong.
My mom told me one anecdote regarding where he got into some hot water with my grandmother because he drove another woman home. As a Korean and a Christian, the conservative values are multiplied when it comes to those of the opposite sex. While I can’t imagine my grandfather ever cheating, I also can’t imagine that he didn’t feel something of an ego boost driving this other Korean grandma home. I imagine that they talk about the old country, their family life here in the states compared to the dictatorship of Pre-2000 Korea. Mostly, I imagine the grandma talking about my granddad’s ping pong skills. In elderly circles, this is probably the equivalent of being the star quarterback.
I wonder how many grandmothers my granddad is driving home, playing the delicate and dangerous game of flirting with them as they talk up his latest win in the local ping pong league while ignoring the tenets of marriage and Korean Jesus. These are all jokes between myself and I…but one can imagine.
As his grandson, I do feel concerned about his driving habits. If he is going to pass on, I prefer it not be as tragic as a car accident. Even worse, I would hate to think that he takes a life, his or another’s due to his own driving. Then again, he hasn’t killed anyone yet.
I also understand a lot of where some of this is coming from. He spent a good 5 years living in American on his own in the ’80s, working until he could get a green card to bring his family over to the states. During that time, he must have been lonely. Cut to today, his family is here. He no longer has to worry about a dictatorship that is running the citizens into poverty. Yet, his wife of many decades is a super conservative woman with an iron grip on the family. I would not call her an emotionally available person. The one time I saw my grandad try to kiss her in public, she returned it with a slap on the face and a look of embarrassment. I can only imagine that the open road, itself an American symbol of exploration and freedom, is one of the few places where he can experience true autonomy.
After all, the man is in his 80’s. This is about the time where death starts to knock at the door. You can ignore it for a while. You might be able to stay quiet every time they come a’ knocking and just wait for them to leave. Like the KGB, however, the door is going to open someday. Hopefully, it will open gently as my grandfather lets them in with an elderly grace. Or it might come crashing down with him fighting till the last second.
As much as I worry for him (and especially others), I also would like to think that he is having as much fun as possible. Who am I, or anyone, to deny him that?
Danger Wonka 