You’ve probably heard of the sandwich generation, the group
in the middle still raising kids while taking care of aging parents. Well, I
was a club sandwich, taking care of two generations older than me and two
generations younger.
My grandfather became homeless at the age of 92 when his
house burned down in the Oakland fire of 1991. He lost everything. I was living
alone in a four bedroom house, so he and his girlfriend moved in. Not only did
he need someplace to live, but he needed help dealing with settling his
insurance claims, replacing lost documents, building a new wardrobe, managing
his health care, and buying a replacement car. Yes, he was still driving.
My mother, his only child, was suffering from dementia. She
had gone downhill after the death of my father in 1984, so I took over managing
her life and care in a nearby facility. I tried having her live with me, hiring
people to assist, but she was insufferable. She refused to let caregivers do
their job. She wouldn’t eat food they prepared, wouldn’t allow them to bathe
and dress her, and wouldn’t go to doctor’s appointments without me. To preserve
my sanity, I placed her in a care home in 1990, but still managed her affairs,
took her to medical visits, and spent time with her.
Late 1992, my beloved brother was dying of AIDS in Issaquah,
Washington. Providing respite to his partner by sharing caregiving, I flew to
Washington from San Jose on Friday afternoons and returned Sunday evenings. Ken
died in January, 1993 and I served as executor of his estate with all its
concomitant duties.
Later in 1993, my younger daughter’s marriage failed. Her ex-husband left the state and provided no
support for her or their three kids. I could not bear to see them suffer; I
needed to know they were safe. So the four of them moved into a house down the
street from where I lived. I provided rent, transportation, baby-sitting, and
pre-school tuition.
And I worked full time as a technical writer for IBM.
When my brother and grandfather died in 1993, I came into a
small amount of money. I knew I had to use some of it to bring a little fun
into my life. Taking a long hard look at the way I spent my time and the
towering responsibilities I still shouldered, I realized driving was the most
fun I had during those dreary days. I loved driving: the isolation, the time to
myself, singing out loud, drumming on the steering wheel, and forgetting about
the difficult reality of my day-to-day life. I was still locked into taking
care of my mother, my daughter, and my grandkids, so my escape would have to be
limited to the time I spent in the car. But, I could make it a lot more fun. I
could do it in a convertible.
At the age of 54, I walked into a Toyota dealership and
plunked down cash for a white Celica GT convertible. It was sweet, with a big
smile for a grill across the front of it, demure retracting headlights, a sexy spoiler on the rear, grey leather
seats, and a black rag top. The first few days I was afraid to think about what
I had impetuously done. I continued driving my SUV while the convertible
huddled in the garage. From time to time, I opened the door from the kitchen to
the garage, saw that it was really there, and closed the door wondering what in
hell had possessed me.
Before long, my daughter’s car died and I gave her my SUV.
The convertible became my only car. I began to realize I could do more than
just drive to and from work; I gradually worked up courage and took off on
weekends. My favorite getaways involved driving the California coast,
especially the Big Sur coast down to Morro Bay and back. I processed grief and
solved many of the world’s problems on those solo trips. I had no desire for
company. The freedom to stop, go, and meander with no consideration for anyone
else and no one to take care of was so liberating. I never questioned whether
the top would be up or down. It was down. Every weekend it wasn’t raining I
took off. Cold weather didn’t stop me, top down, heater and radio blasting, I
was free. Money bought me hours of happiness as I explored California topless.
During this time I was seeing a psychotherapist because I
had so many tough issues to deal with. I couldn’t focus and sort out what I
needed to do. My mind was a muddled mess. On the shrink’s suggestion, I took a
month off work to get my head together. In retrospect, I know I resolved much
more behind the wheel than I did in therapy. He expressed concern about my
impulsive spending. I was worried about not having any fun.
Supporting my daughter in a separate household became
unaffordable, so she and her three boys moved in with me. We were crowded in my
1500 square foot San Jose home and I began to consider other options. We
decided to move from Silicon Valley to the Sierra Foothills, where I bought a
large home with a huge yard and a swimming pool. I rented a room in Silicon
Valley during the week and commuted to the hills on weekends. Again, driving
became the best part of my week. I developed what I called Zen driving, where I
effortlessly, but fully consciously, moved through the countryside on the 180
mile drive. Heavy traffic never bothered me. I saw as it as opportunity for
more solitude and contemplation. As always, when in my magic convertible zone,
I alternated meditation with singing, listening to classical music at a very
high volume, and transporting myself in more ways than one.
One particular Sunday night, I was returning to Silicon
Valley around 10:00 P.M.; there was virtually no traffic. A Strauss waltz blared
from the speakers in the door while I waltzed down the highway, staying in my
lane, but swinging from one side to the other as I counted out one-two-three,
one-two-three. It took a while before I noticed the red light of a highway
patrol car in my rear-view mirror. I pulled over and the patrolman approached
my car. His first question was, “Have you been drinking?” I assured him I had
not. He said he had observed me weaving within my lane, not crossing the line,
so he wouldn’t cite me, but he wanted to know what was going on. He let me go
with a recommendation that I restrict my waltzing to the dance floor.
During the time I owned my convertible, it suffered three
injuries. The first was a sad encounter with a BMW driven by a distracted teenager.
After a month in the repair shop and $13,000 worth of rehabilitation, it was
nearly as good as new.
My beloved car suffered its second mishap on the morning of
January 22, 1997, when my older daughter gave birth to her second son. I was so
excited by the news, I backed into the garage door frame on my way to the
hospital. The result was a small dent in the rear bumper which I left
unrepaired. I thought of it as a birthmark.
My long distance commuting ended when I began telecommuting and anticipated retiring. Many days I didn’t even leave the home in the hills I shared with my younger daughter and her three boys. The convertible often stayed in the garage while my daughter drove our Suburban. My getaway drives became explorations of the Sierra mountain passes. I drove them all. My faithful wheels managed the 10,000 foot granite summits with ease. In the middle of October, 1999, golden Quaking Aspens shimmered, cowboys rounded up cattle grazing in high alpine meadows, and the first snowflakes fell on my unprotected head; it nourished my soul.
By this time, my oldest grandson was 15, looking forward to
getting his driver’s license, and hopeful that he would inherit my beautiful
little car. He jumped the gun one day when he decided to take the convertible
for an unauthorized spin. However, he was thwarted when, while still in the
driveway, he banged the convertible into the Suburban. The damage to the
Suburban was undetectable, but the Celica suffered a disfiguring blow to the
right front quarter panel, and its left headlight could no longer retract. I
couldn’t deal with it. The car had 120,000 miles on it, the threads on the rag
top were showing signs of wear, and now this unsightly blemish. I decided to
sell. I ran an ad and agreed to sell to the first respondent, a young man who
planned to surprise his wife with a birthday gift. I sold it for about half
what it was worth, but more important it went to another loving home.
