The Deep End of the Carpool

     

Right lane closed, wrong lane open.

With parking rates in Boston rising astronomically and traffic increasing exponentially, it made sense to carpool to work with a fellow employee. There were a ton of advantages besides saving money and saving gas. I could access the carpool lane without fear of getting pulled over by a state trooper. I could whiz past a solid line of commuters sitting at a standstill. I could leave my house later than usual and still make it to work on time.

     It helps if you find the right person to commute with. My carpool buddy “John” (not his real name) was the ideal candidate. We shared the same work hours. Our homes were on the same route, which made commuting together relatively smooth.

     John did most of the driving while I did most of the talking. That worked out well because I’ve got so many stories to tell. We got to work faster on the days John drove. Let’s just say his repeated viewings of The Fast and The Furious have influenced his driving style. My diploma from Old Man Doherty’s Driving School has the slogan at the bottom that reads Slow And Steady Wins The Race.

     As a passenger, It was difficult for me to relinquish control. On the highway, John would remind me there is no brake pedal on the passenger side. Apparently he noticed me grinding my foot into the floor every time he pulled up within a half-inch of the vehicle in front of us. “I’m not letting anyone cut in front of me today,” he would say with a grim smile. Am I the only person who stills leaves a car-length (or three) in front of me on the highway?

     I learned some driving tips from John that have improved my own driving: You don’t need to be in your exit lane until the very last second. It’s okay to quickly cut in front of 18-wheel tractor-trailers because they can’t accelerate as fast as you. Do not let anyone into your lane, no matter if they have their blinker on or how many hand signals they use. Traffic circles and Road Warrior movies have a lot in common. And my favorite – how to punch the steering wheel to release stress.

     I kept my critiques about John's driving to a minimum. “This is the carpool lane, not Space Mountain.” “Nice two-wheel corner around that rotary, Vin Diesel.” “Speeding through this tunnel with you reminds me of Princess Diana.” Hmmm, no wonder John was punching his steering wheel.

     When you spend prolonged time in an enclosed vehicle through stressful morning and evening commutes, a close bond is formed between passenger and driver. Light is shed on a person’s idiosyncrasies wouldn’t surface in casual workplace conversations. John is an Eminem fan, who knew? (Sorry, I forgot the first rule of carpool is don't talk about carpool.)

     I’m sure some of my own “quirks” were exposed during our daily commute. My musical taste and television viewing habits are not everyone’s cup of tea. But John was a good listener, a great conversationalist and a true friend.

     This month John has moved to a new town. Our carpool arrangement has come to a screeching halt. I’m going to miss our mornings together in the fast lane as I stare at the miles of stopped traffic ahead of me with no one to talk to but myself.

     During our last ride home together my carpool buddy said, “You probably never realized we narrowly avoided major collisions on a daily basis.” Oh yes, John, I noticed. I helped us avoid them on numerous occasions by stepping on the imaginary brake pedal on the passenger side.

Baby, You’re a Firework

My little firecracker

     July Fourth has always been special to me. I wasn’t exactly born on the fourth of July, but I was born on June 30th and in those days mother’s weren’t sent home from the hospital the next day because their insurance didn’t cover extended stays. So my first Fourth of July was spent in the nursery of the Whidden Memorial Hospital in Everett. At least there was a view of the fireworks from high on the hospital hill.

     Growing up, my family’s fourth of July celebrations were held at my Aunt Agnes’ house on Mount Washington street, also in Everett. She had the best backyard and the best view of fireworks from all of the surrounding towns. Mount Washington Street was aptly named because of the panoramic view. We always went to my aunt's house right after the parade that marched up Broadway. Parades in those days were real parades, with tons of floats, clowns, marching bands and waving veterans, beauty queens, politicians and celebrities. I never wanted the short termed helium balloon. I always asked for a pop-gun or, my favorite, a monkey on a stick. To each his own.

     One fourth of July parade, all of us kids got to pose for pictures with Batman and Robin. Yes, the real Batman and Robin (at least we thought so). One other year, the Wild Man of Borneo broke free from his cage by bending the bars and made a beeline toward me as I screamed in terror and tried to flee. No one told me it was my Uncle Gordon in costume. I was scarred for life and to this day I cannot be around Wild Men from Borneo.

     When I was a teenager in 1976, the country celebrated its 200 year Bicentennial celebration. Unfortunately, punk rock was all the rage with the drama club crowd so we all wore black jeans and t shirts in some form of protest against big business taking over the country. We were ahead of our time. And young and naive at the time, or maybe we were ahead of our time.

When my own children were born, I enjoyed the fourth of July celebrations immensely. Especially the year the Fred Flintstone Macy’s type balloon made it into the fourth of July parade and then proceeded to fly out of control and careen into the crowd, causing people to drop their Richie’s Slush onto the hot pavement and run for cover. Ahh, memories.

     When my children were older, celebrating the fourth of July became more low key. Parades and barbecues came and went. The Fourth of July afternoon was spent in Grandma and Grandpa’s pool, or at Aunt Susan and Uncle Bobby’s in Abington (the other side of the world). And now that time has passed too with the passing of Grandma and Grandpa.

     I’m the Grandpa now. And I have lots of new Fourth of July memories to share with my extended family and my new granddaughter Eliana. I hope there is a lifetime of parades and barbecues still to come, with just as many memories for her as there is for me. Happy Birthday America!