I don’t remember why, but I was the only one visiting my parents one July 4th weekend in Maine and we were going to do what everyone does on Frye Island that weekend--head to Long Beach and watch the fireworks show. We had been enjoying a streak of picture-perfect Maine summer sunniness – so it was on.
A day earlier, my dad drove our golf cart up to the front of the house, liberating it from underneath the giant blue tarp it usually sat under and announced, “We’ll take it up to the fireworks.” We acquired the golf cart years ago after we sold the Boston Whaler that came with the cottage. We tried to be boaters, we really did, but boating just wasn’t in us. So, off went the Whaler and in came the cart. Now that was a vehicle that got some use. You could buzz down to the store for a paper, run up to the community center for a ceramics class or get rid of a couple of bags of garbage without disturbing the dust on anyone’s car. When my son Christopher spent two summers on the island scooping ice cream cones at the little store, the golf cart was his preferred and constant mode of transportation. Even if it wasn’t exactly street legal. Once he got a real driver’s license though, the golf cart was as neglected as the Velveteen Rabbit. But, we hauled it out every spring to clean and gas it up, ready for service, only to be dusted off and returned to its place under the tarp in the fall. With very little use in between.
It was a bit of a surprise to see Dad drive it up to the front of the house, not because we didn’t often use it but because he actually didn’t drive anymore. And probably shouldn’t have been. Over the years, due to diabetes, my dad’s eyesight grew more and more compromised. He had to give up driving–even the golf cart--and we all knew it made him feel useless, although he didn’t talk about it that much.
But there he was, futzing around with the lights, cleaning pine needles off the seat and testing the battery. He was getting the cart ready for the fireworks show like a teenager anticipating his first date.
After the cleaning, he came into the kitchen and said to no one in particular, “I’m just going to take it down the road and back – see how it’s working” and he was off. Mom and I just looked at each other, like, “what could possibly happen?” I wondered how many hazards there could be in the rutted, rock-strewn dirt road up to the corner and back, so after he safely made it down the driveway, I sat on the front porch to wait for him. The better to hear any loud crashes or shrieks of terror that way.
About six hours later he returned. Or maybe it was six minutes. Either way, I let out the breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. “All set!” he said, and he walked back into the living room to read, as if taking the cart for a spin was something he did every afternoon.
We didn’t talk about it at dinner, so I figured the test run was the extent of his driving for the day and I’d be chauffeuring us all to the fireworks. It wasn’t until I heard him shout from outside, “Everyone ready to go?” that I realized he intended to drive us as he was planted firmly in the driver’s seat.
At the last minute, Mom stayed back. “Something at dinner didn’t agree with me,” she said with her hand on her belly. Nerves at my dad’s being behind the wheel? Possibly. It could also be that she didn’t want to sit on my lap all the way to Long Beach. In any case, she begged off, promising to call if she felt better.
I took my place on the passenger side. My dad turned the key, kicked off the brake and hit the gas. We were off. Down the driveway – great. Up to the corner – well, he had already practiced that one, hadn’t he? Right onto Leisure Lane and the open road. Should I keep my eyes open or squeeze them shut? Leisure Lane winds about a mile from our road to the town beach. A dirt mile of sharp turns, gallon-sized pot holes, scattered rocks of varying sizes bordered by boulders, low hanging pine branches and occasionally, toddlers.
At first, I tried to be a helpful navigator. “Family of six up on the right,” I said. “See it,” Dad said. “Enormous truck bearing down on us on the left,” I yelped. “Got it,” he said. As we took each turn and steered past cars parked along side the road, I realized – we were doing okay. Compromised eyesight or not, the one thing my Dad has always been is responsible. I knew he wouldn’t do anything he didn’t think he could do, especially if it meant it might put me – or anyone– in harm’s way. Deciding to get behind the wheel was a decision he probably thought through very carefully so I relaxed my grip on the seat handle and let him drive.
We parked as close to the beach as possible, just another cart among the dozens that had made their way there that night. We unpacked our folding chairs and found a spot in the sand right by the water. We settled in, chatted with neighbors and waited for the show to start. Staring up at the dazzling display, I couldn’t tell what Dad was thinking, but I bet he felt relieved. On the return trip, I drove and Dad navigated. In the dark, with all the dust kicked up by departing fireworks-watchers, seeing was difficult enough for my 50-plus-year-old eyes, much less for 75-year-old eyes dimmed by diabetes.
I walked down to the dock while Mom, suddenly cured, fixed coffee and dessert. I stuck my feet in the water and was delighted to notice, about 10 feet in front of me, a couple of fireflies dancing and twinkling below the branches of a white pine. Sometimes, the little things are really the most impressive.
Great pic of your Dad! It’s nice to hear you waxing sentimental. 😉
I so love taking trips to the past with you! Thanks for the ride!