My father is legally blind. This has not limited him in many ways, but he has always lived with the frustration of not being able to drive a car. This past weekend I was in Atlanta visiting my father and friends when my husband and a close girlfriend began a light discussion about cars. My father expressed his regret over never being able to drive one. I was thinking that he is more than able to afford to hire someone to drive the car of his choice, but I know it's not the same. For him a car represents freedom - something that I (having been a driver since 16) tend to take for granted. Thinking about this in the presence of my loved ones made me remember something from my youth. My Dad used to do the routine repair work on our family car. As a little kid, my friends and I would watch him get under it in the garage and begin his inspection. It was mostly mundane, but every so often something fantastic would happen! I'm not sure why - maybe the light in the garage wasn't good, or he needed more room to operate - but my Dad would climb behind the wheel and back the car up to the end of the driveway.
OK, you're not astounded. But, to us, this was like watching a miracle. Like seeing a crippled man walk, or a blind woman regain her sight. We'd immediately jump to our feet. I was 6, my best friend was 9, and my baby sister was 3. With every hair on our heads standing on end we'd scream, shout, embrace each other jumping up and down and yell, "Go! Goooooooooo!!! Go Daddy, go!" "Keep going Mr. Davis! Keep driving!!" "Look at him! He's doing it!!!" "All the way to the end of the block. All the way, as fast as you can! Keep going, Daddy! Gooooo!!!!!"
For the 10 seconds it took for him to back the car up from the garage to the end of the driveway, his dream was our dream. His freedom was our freedom. We dreamed with him. We imagined with him. We screamed, and shouted, and stamped our feet at the possibility of this independence.
He never went further than the end of the driveway. So afraid that he might hit a child he didn't see - so aware of the danger. He'd only get out of the car, smile at us, and laugh. He'd point at us and shake his head. He felt our love for him. He allowed our enthusiam to wash over him. He appreciated the love of these children he loved so much. The possibility that I celebrated was not my dream at all. But I don't think I've ever felt so free.
OK, you're not astounded. But, to us, this was like watching a miracle. Like seeing a crippled man walk, or a blind woman regain her sight. We'd immediately jump to our feet. I was 6, my best friend was 9, and my baby sister was 3. With every hair on our heads standing on end we'd scream, shout, embrace each other jumping up and down and yell, "Go! Goooooooooo!!! Go Daddy, go!" "Keep going Mr. Davis! Keep driving!!" "Look at him! He's doing it!!!" "All the way to the end of the block. All the way, as fast as you can! Keep going, Daddy! Gooooo!!!!!"
For the 10 seconds it took for him to back the car up from the garage to the end of the driveway, his dream was our dream. His freedom was our freedom. We dreamed with him. We imagined with him. We screamed, and shouted, and stamped our feet at the possibility of this independence.
He never went further than the end of the driveway. So afraid that he might hit a child he didn't see - so aware of the danger. He'd only get out of the car, smile at us, and laugh. He'd point at us and shake his head. He felt our love for him. He allowed our enthusiam to wash over him. He appreciated the love of these children he loved so much. The possibility that I celebrated was not my dream at all. But I don't think I've ever felt so free.
2 comments:
That's a great recollection of your father - I almost felt like I was in that garage with you as a kid. Good writing..
I love this story. Keep them coming.
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