INVINCIBLE YOUTH

INVINCIBLE YOUTH
C 2009 JoJo

It is a well known fact that young people think they’re invincible, and that nothing bad could possibly happen to them.

When I think back to my early married days, I am staggered by the things I did, which I wouldn’t dream of doing today!

First off, I learned how to drive when I was 32, and 8 months pregnant with my last child! As the good old saying goes, “needs must when the devil drives,” – a Brit saying which in essence means “necessity is the mother of invention.” We’d moved to a town named Lorraine, North of Montreal, where there was no public transportation, and I had to be able to get about, especially to my (by-then) weekly visits to my obstetrician.

My first driving instructor was my husband – big mistake that. Husbands and wives shouldn’t attempt to teach each other anything.

“I hope you looked in your side mirror before you made that left turn,” he said.

DUH nooo, I didn’t!! He didn’t tell me I had to look in my side mirror, so how as I to know? He said he assumed I’d know, to which I replied he shouldn’t assume any such thing. I was so terrified of the whole driving thing, that I didn’t think of looking into it myself!

Hubby trying to teach me to drive was as disastrous as me trying to teach him how to play Bridge.

“In Bridge,” I said, “I explained the rudiments of Bridge to him, adding that the bidding tells your partner what you’re holding in your hand.

“Okay, let’s try it. One club,” I said.

“Two aces,” he replied, when he saw the exasperated expression on my face he protested, “You told me I was to tell you what I have in my hand – and I have two aces.” I threw in the towel and gave up trying to teach him Bridge.

He threw in the towel about my driving lessons too so I went to a driving school and enrolled.

On my first lesson with a pucker driving instructor, I don’t know who was more terrified – my driving instructor or I! He kept muttering, “Move over more to the middle of the road – there’s room – we’ll end up in a ditch soon if you don’t.” I guess he was the one in greater terror for his life because a new guy showed up for my second lesson.

Somehow, I managed to pass the driving test. I still remember the moment when he handed me my driving licenSe. “Here,” my stalwart driving instructor said, “Now go out there and learn how to drive!”

Not reassuring words, those – no, not encouraging at all.

Even today, I would hesitate to take the elevated Metropolitan Expressway, followed by the Decarie Expressway into Montreal, which was the only way I could get to my doctor’s office!

I think the word “Expressway” says it all. It means moving along at a fair clip; unfortunately I was too terrified to be “express” along either route. However, I found a solution of sorts, namely that I’d tuck myself behind a huge oil tanker or semi, puddling along at 20 mph, and no one would honk me, hassle me or yell out “*#&**#$ WOMAN DRIVER” as they shot by!

I can remember inadvertently cutting off a male driver once, and realized immediately what I’d done when I heard the screech of brakes and the blast of a horn. When we stopped at the next red light, he lowered his window and was all set to give me a well deserved berating. Before he could yell a word, I put my hands together in a prayerful position and mouthed the words ‘I’M SORRY,” at which point, his irate face broke into a great big grin, he waved and drove off.

So now you have the picture – nervous, 8 months pregnant woman brand new, inexperienced driver.

At this point in time, my Brit husband purchased an English car called a “Rover” which, being ancient, didn’t run and needed work. However, he’s a superb mechanic and wasn’t concerned about it. In fact, he was excited over the challenge of getting it back to full running order and generally spiffing it up.

But you can’t just walk into a Canadian Tire Hardware Store and say, “My good man, get me an ignition system for a 1950 Rover, and while you’re about it, some sprockets, a cam shaft and …” They just aren’t available, seeing that the car has been out of production for longer than you’ve probably been alive. So where do you get spare parts for an ancient Rover? From a scrap ancient Rover is how!

To hubby’s utter delight, he found one for sale, located in a garage at a vast distance from where we lived, and he bought it. The problem was – it too didn’t run, so how to get it from the far reaches of Outer Mongolia to our home in Lorraine? Obviously, there was only one way – it had to be towed from hither to yon.

First off, hubby approached his friends to help him get this car into our garage, by towing it back. They all refused! Smart guys! Hubby then turned to me “Well, there’s no other solution – you’ll have to tow it!”

“Who me?” I squeaked absolutely appalled at the very notion of it. “I can hardly screw up the courage to drive to the local supermarket, much less tow a car all the way home from Montreal.”

“There is no other solution,” he said firmly. “I’ve bought it and I can’t get anyone else to do it. Besides, what are you worried about? You’ll only be driving the car and towing me in the Rover behind you. You can do it – a piece of jolly old cake.” ONLY? A PIECE OF JOLLY OLD CAKE? I don’t think so!

Being young, (ergo invincible) I allowed him to talk me into it.

It was mid Winter, the roads were slushy and filthy. After attaching the tow steel cable to the Rover, I got into the lead car and prepared myself for the terrifying journey ahead. Hubby came over to my window. If I want you to stop, I’ll signal you by flashing my headlights, okay?”

“Okay,” I quavered, throat dry with terror. And so we set off.

Naturally, my car’s back wheels were kicking up a heck of a lot of slush and mud onto the towed Rover’s windshield, and what I didn’t know was that Hubby only found out at this point, that the windshield wipers didn’t work – actually, none of the electrical systems worked, so he couldn’t even signal me with his headlights! All he could do was follow my rear lights blindly through the murk spattered all over his windshield, and hope for the best!

And so I drove onto the Laurentian Autoroute, the main highway north, which led to the exit to our home, blithely unaware that Hubby couldn’t see a thing through the mud and grime, and had no way to tell me of his predicament.

Once on the Laurentian Autoroute I had to go through a toll gate and when I pulled up to it, the uniformed Laurentian Police operator looked out of his window, saw I was towing a car and said “You’re not allowed to do that,” (which didn’t surprise me in the least bit) at which point I put on my best poor-woman-in-distress act and said plaintively “We’ll be getting off at the next exit officer” (which thankfully was true) so he took pity on me and waved us through!

We got home safely, through the Grace of God. But today when I recall this event, I think to myself what was I thinking? Was I stark, staring, raving, mad? Well no, I wasn’t – I was just young – and, by definition, invincible!