During
the time my family lived on a farm near Mount Forest, Ontario, my
mother worked as a visiting nurse with the Victorian Order of Nurses,
or VON as it was known. VON equipped all their nurses with Volkswagen
Beetles in a Virgin Mary blue that matched the darker blue uniforms
and wool coats worn by the nurses. Everyone in Wellington County, the
area served by this branch of VON, knew Maman's Beetle: not because
of its color, but because of her fast driving. Her priority was with
her patients – changing dressings, administering injections,
comforting them and their families. Patients loved her because she
gave them all the time they needed and more, but that meant
recovering those lost minutes by speeding along to the next call.
Neighbours
remarked on how they heard the distinctive burr of the bug and
watched my mother smoke by as she raced along the concession roads,
deftly down-shifting and swerving to avoid potholes. Stop signs? Roll
through and get moving. Her acceleration was wicked, as if
everything counted on getting up to speed as fast as possible. Lives
could be saved or lost in those few seconds. In the winter, slippery
roads sometimes defied her. Once an icy patch tossed the Beetle into
the ditch. Maman walked to the nearest farmhouse. About five minutes
later, four hefty farm lads walked back to the bug with her,
positioned themselves at each wheel, and lifted the darn thing back
onto the road. Maman thanked them and sped away.
When
we moved from the farm to Guelph, my mother kept her blue Beetle –
and her driving habits. We lived in the southeast part of Guelph;
the VON office was in the northwest. Maman was blessed with a mental
GPS, configured to “fastest route, please.” Just as she knew all
the back roads of Wellington County, she had a cab-driver's knowledge
of Guelph's short-cuts, and always chose the shortest path from point
A to point B. From our home on Delhi Street, the fastest route to
the VON office was east on Delhi, a south turn on Eramosa and then,
half-way down the hill, a left onto King Street, which ran diagonally
down to the river and connected with York Street where the VON office
was located. Taking this route bypassed the longer, slower downtown
streets. In the face of the oncoming traffic surging up the Eramosa
hill, you could see Maman silently calculating just how quickly the car
would have to move to make that left turn. Often, she would cut the
corner sharply by pulling the wheel hard to the left and stepping on
the gas -- much to the terror of anyone sitting in the front
passenger seat. A few times my heart almost stopped and I screamed
at her to slow down. She simply ignored me, eyes intent on the road,
foot firmly on the gas. She had a tiny statue of Saint Christopher
glued to the Beetle's black pebbled dashboard: maybe it was his
influence, or else the platoon of guardian angels watching over her,
for she never had an accident – at least not during those years.
Now,
I would like to boast that I am a far more cautious, and therefore,
far better driver than my mother. But that would be an outright and
pompous lie. My husband John would be the first to call me on it.
John
and I enjoy different relationships with the gas pedal. He likes to
toodle along at the speed limit and gawk at the latest highway or
building construction along the way. This is fine when we're heading
into the city to go to Home Depot or Value Village. It's not fine
when we want to see a movie, and we left late, and the line-up will
probably snake around two city blocks, and we won't get a ticket, and
we'll end up disappointed...well, that's where my
disaster-preparation mind goes. So when we have to get somewhere by
a fixed time, I offer to drive.
I
remember one long drive to visit John's father and his wife Beate who lived
on Christian Island in Georgian Bay, east of Penatanguishene.
It
was a swelteringly hot Friday in July, which sorely tested the
air-conditioning in our old Honda Accord. We had been on the road
since 4 a.m. that morning. The drive takes about seven to eight
hours, depending on who's behind the wheel. Our route took us east
along Highway 60, through Algonquin Park, over the top of Orillia,
across Highway 400 on the Horseshoe Valley Road, and then through a
grid of concession roads to a little outpost called Cedar Point.
There, a 20-minute ferry ride connects the mainland with Christian
Island. Most of the secondary highways posted speed
limits of 80 kilometers per hour. I ignored the signs and drove a
steady 100. The times John took the wheel, we dropped down to 85,
while I practised deep breathing to tone down my impatience.
Crossing
over Highway 400, we turned north on our first concession road
towards Cedar Point, which was still some 70 kilometers away.
I
glanced at my watch. 12:20 p.m. “When does the ferry leave?” I
asked John.
“I
think there's one at 1:30 p.m. and then another one at 4 p.m.,” he
said. “I wrote it down. It's in my wallet.” He dug out a
tattered green cloth and Velcro wallet and handed it to me. I rifled
through and found a tiny slip of paper, with even tinier lettering.
“Hmm,” I said. “It says 1:00, not 1:30, and yes, there's
another ferry at 4:00 p.m.”
It
was now almost 12:30. If we didn't make the 1 o'clock ferry, we faced three miserable hours waiting in the heat. The only thing
besides the ferry at Cedar Point is a tiny convenience store that's
more a shack than anything else. “It would be great if we could
make the 1 p.m. ferry,” I said. “Yeah, it's kinda hot out there,”
John replied. “I think we can make it, but only if you let me
drive,” I said decisively. John raised his eyebrows, and after a
short pause, nodded. He stopped the car, we dashed around and
switched places.
“Okay,”
I said. “You look out for kids – and cops.” I pushed in the
clutch, ran through the gears and mashed the gas pedal to the floor.
The speedometer leapt to the right – 80, 100, 120, 150, 160. That
was as fast as I trusted myself to go. Luckily, in this part of
Ontario, the land is high and flat, and the roads are straight and
paved. Even luckier, there was hardly another car on the road.
Whenever we did meet another car, I slowed down to a prudent 120.
And no-one seemed to be out: no toddlers crawling in the grass, no
youngsters playing road hockey, no adults puttering in gardens, or
sitting in lawn chairs on front porches. They all must have been
hiding from the heat, watching movies in their cool basements or
air-conditioned family rooms. All my concentration was on the road,
and I felt my mother's genes flowing into my body like high tide. As
we flew along, John kept blessedly silent, his right hand firmly
gripping the passenger ceiling strap. The telephone poles whipped
by; golden barley fields spiralled crazily. Like my mother, I paid
little attention to stop signs other than to look both ways before
hurtling across the intersection. Corners were trickier. I had to
brake enough to manage the curve yet not lose too much speed. From
time to time, I glanced down at the car's clock. Five minutes to go
and we were less than 5 kilometers from the ferry. Would we make it?
The pavement ended, and we fishtailed on the dirt road, gravel
spinning up from the wheels. A thick oak forest shadowed the road,
the road zigzagged left and then right, more quick, furious braking,
and then a sign, Cedar Point Ferry 1 km, flashed by. We crested a
hill and caught sight of the magnificent turquoise waters of Georgian
Bay. And there, still hugging the dock, sat the ferry. A handful of
cars and pick-up trucks were already on board, with one final
vehicle, a white Chevy SUV trundling across the metal ramp onto the
ferry. We zoomed down the hill and squealed to a stop. The ferry
operator, a middle-aged man with a weatherbeaten face, flipped his
cigarette over the side. He signalled me to drive forward. Suddenly
I became aware of my pounding heart, my forehead damp with sweat and
my shaking hands. I rolled down the window to pay the fare. The
thick noxious smell of rubber from the over-worked brake pads filled
the air and the Honda's tires steamed.
“Did
some smoking, eh?” grunted the ferryman. I turned to John, and we
both laughed giddily. I imagined my mother laughing with us.
Maman stopped operating a car when she turned 85, but that hasn't ended her
driving. These days, her vehicle of choice is an all-weather
Shoprider Flagship, an enclosed scooter that she affectionately calls
her “Doohickey.” Her only complaint: it doesn't go fast enough.
