Sometimes when the skies are gray for an extended period of time, my thoughts journey into a gray area also. It is at these times that I think about things, and there are a myriad of them — truth be told — that I question, I find annoying, or I just outright don’t get. So what’s a girl to do? I go with it.
I am going to share a couple of these with you because I know that is exactly what you want me to do. If I am incorrect about this assumption, then just talk among yourselves.
When I was about 10 years old old, I spent the night at a friend’s house. My family lived on South Main Street then and she lived in the neighborhood on Wiley. Well, it was about 9:30 or so, and we were listening to 45s on the record player. Yep, the old time vinyl with that really big hole in the middle and that thing that we shoved down on that spindle thing that played records with little holes. If you are of a certain age, you probably see it clearly in your memory. Anyway, we had the volume up, probably so no one would hear our “secrets of 10 year old girls.” Her mom said, “Time to turn down the music, girls.” So I thought my friend wold turn down the music. She didn’t. I questioned that decision. She said, “Oh, no, we have until she gets to 3.”
I, as one can only imagine, was baffled: get to 3? What did that mean? She calmly explained that when her mom told her or her siblings something to do, if they waited to comply, she would say, “I am going to count to 3!” And when she got to 2 and ¾, they made a move to do what had been asked. Wow! Who knew there was such a system?? I could barely wait to get home.
Not being the smartest child my mother birthed, I returned home and immediately asked my mom why she never counted to 3. Her eyebrow arched into her hairline (I am sure I have mentioned this previously … she had “the brow arch” down to an art form), and asked, “What do you mean?” I replied, innocently, “Mrs. ________ counts to 3 when she tells her kids to do something and they do not do it. Kind of like a warning; Mom, why don’t you count to 3?”
OK, she gently cupped my chubby chin in her long, tapered, beautiful fingers, brought her most lovely face right close to mine and said, “I know I could count to 3, but if you are doing or not doing something I want changed, you know it and I know it, and counting to 3 would not substantially alter the outcome at all. Seems like a waste of time to me.” End of that discussion.
It was then that I wondered what horribly traumatic event had occurred in my mom’s life to make her so staunchly averse to any kind of verbal warning. The possibilities made me shudder. It wasn’t just the counting; my mom also never said, “Don’t make me stop this car.” She just stopped the dang car. She never said, “You just wait until your dad gets home.” Nope, she was a firm believer in whomever was present when the infraction happened, was the one to take care of it.
Believe me, my mom was more than adequately equipped to handle any infraction. Truth is, me being a child who often found herself in the midst of “infractions,” many times I wished she had waited for my dad to get home.
Other than that perfectly arched disappearing brow or “that look” that could stop anything that was breathing right smack dab in its tracks, no warning shots were fired. Just the way it was.
That thought, with no discernible connection at all, surfaced while I was on the way home from a doctor’s appointment. I was driving east on Interstate 469 from I-69 to Ind. 1. There were several large trucks; traffic was going about 65 mph; I was comfortable with that. A marooon-ish color car behind me pulled out into the left lane — prior to hitting me, fortunately — and began passing a line of vehicles. Well, he got to the second truck when a person in a red car came flying in at about 96 mph and got right on the other car’s back-end. Tapped his brakes about 1,000 times in rapid succession and proceeded to ride the first driver’s bumper. I dropped back a bit to avoid any possible collision debris. Anyway, that red car wasn’t more than 24 inches from the bumper of the maroon car. The first driver had no way to re-enter the right lane to get out of the way because the line of trucks was pretty solid; his clearest choice was to continue to pass in the left lane. However, the guy in the red car didn’t seem to grasp that decision with a kind heart. He continued to ride that bumper like white on rice.
I have an aversion to tailgaters; they cause a most unappealing response in me when I either am involved with one behind me or I am witness to one in the lane beside me. My “flying finger of fate” just slaps right up and into my side window. It has no noticeable effect, but it does make me feel a momentary sense of righteousness.
I think, where the heck do you want the guy to go? If he could get over so you could resume your ground flight on to wherever the heck you are going at warp speed, he would. My initial thought actually is this, “If you are anywhere near that close to someone’s rear, you should, at the very minimum, be on a first name basis.”
Well, that morphed to this thought: I wonder if there is some kind of distinction separating drivers who pull over to the side of the road for a funeral procession and drivers who do not. Oddly, this happened on the same day as the aforementioned witnessed tailgate episode. Here we are, all driving south and coming toward us, led by a police vehicle with flashing lights, a funeral procession. The cars immediately ahead of me pulled over to the side of the road as did I and the cars behind me. Except one. This yahoo kept right on going and even, I swear, revved his engine just a bit, as he passed the rest of us.
I tried to be kind and thought, maybe he is bleeding profusely and trying to get to the ER before he bleeds out completely. Or maybe his wife is in labor in the backseat. Or maybe he didn’t see the flashing lights. Then my mind went to “what a doofus” and proceeded to the next thought “in my day (do you not just cringe when you hear that?) we pulled over for a funeral as a matter of respect, what the heck is wrong with you?”
Almost as cringeworthy for me is when everyone actually does pull to the side for a funeral, and then the very second that the very last car of the procession almost gets past, someone, instead of waiting for everyone to gradually pull out and resume their drive in some orderly fashion … screeches out of the line and hightails it onto the road, grinning maniacally (OK I might have just made that part up) as if to say, “King/Queen of the road! Look at me go!” What is that about?
Then there is the car at the stop sign anticipating pulling onto the main road. Driver sits there looking both ways; so far so good. Then at the strategic moment when I am approximately 400 feet from him, there are no cars behind me for about 150 miles, and that driver guns it and pulls out right in front of me! Why couldn’t he wait until I was past and he could have pulled out completely in the clear? Is there a game of which I am unclear of the rules here?
Here’s the thing: I am regularly amazed at how our minds work and what kick starts a certain thought or reaction. I’m equally amazed at how one thought often leads us inextricably into seemingly unrelated thoughts. When I finally reached home that day, I replayed the events in my head. Here’s what settled after the dust cleared. I cannot dictate how others drive; my “flying finger of fate” serves no function in making the world a kinder place; I cannot make someone respectfully pull over for a funeral; I cannot control someone else’s urge to erratically shoot onto the road. The extent of my “control” extends only to myself. I can act and react in the manner which fits comfortably within my boundaries of “right.” If I successfully do that at any given moment, then I will consider that an auspicious moment. Oh, and no, in her entire 79 years, my mom never ever did the “count to 3” thing.
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Editor’s Note: This is one of a series of articles written by a group of retired and current teachers — Ken Ballinger,, Billy Kreigh, Marianne Darr-Norman, and Anna Spalding. Their intent is to spur discussions at the dinner table and elsewhere. You may also voice your thoughts and reactions via The News-Banner’s letters to the editor.
