Today I'm an Active Transportation Activist. But that wasn't always the case. I loved my Matchbox car collection, visited car museums, enjoyed high speed car chases on TV, toured a car factory or two, and dreamed of driving a fancy car one day.
 |
| young me coveting some stranger's Rolls |
Reflecting back almost two years after our breakup, I can
date my early attachment to the car back to my potty training days.
The tiny bottomless chair would fit amid
luggage in the trunk of the ’68 Olds on roadtrips from our Connecticut home to destinations
south and west in preparation for emergency stops along the highway (where the
roar of vehicles was thunderous enough to scare the crap out of any
toddler.)
Shorter journeys north sometimes
involved a family convoy of grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins to Vermont
and New Hampshire for fall foliage, maple syrup, hand crafted cheese, and
hiking boots.
My personal childhood favorite
route ended at
Old Sturbridge Village in Massachusetts, where, wearing the
pioneer dress sewn by my grandmother, I journeyed back to a simpler time without
modern conveniences such as automobiles.
Needless to say, we wouldn’t have made the 100 mile journey as often
without one.
 |
| me at the print shop the blacksmith's and the meeting hall |
|
In the fond fogginess of childhood memories I can recall the
wide expanse of the back seat, the blackness of the interior, the smell of the
heater, the warm vibration of the driveshaft hump in the middle of the floor, and
the sticky feel of the vinyl seat against the back of my legs in summer. As an only child, I was ruler of the back
seat. Without as much public awareness about
seatbelts or booster seats in the 1970’s, I could lie across the seat for a
nap, lulled to sleep by the rhythmic clickety clack of the highway and the
static drone of AM talk radio, only occasionally rolling to the floor upon
stopping short. Or I could find
mischievous entertainment kneeling on the seat and alternatively waving or
sticking my tongue out at the driver behind.
Sometimes I would keep a list of the different state license plates of our
fellow highway travelers. Since Oregon
plate sightings were a rarity, I concluded that the state must but a great
place to live since Oregonians didn’t bother traveling to east coast vacation
destinations.
There were other special adventures that helped me form a close
childhood bond with the sky-blue sedan whose dent in the right rear fender
(from backing into a tree) I would trace with my finger and whose smiley face
scratched into the driver’s side window reflected the artistic genius of my toddlerhood.
Once, out of curiosity, I opened the back
door while the car was moving, and was scared out of my wits by the power of
the air pushing back against the door.
Another time I thought it would be amusing to play peek-a-boo with the
driver (my father) by covering his eyes with the removable lid from the
Styrofoam ice chest.
I remember climbing
in and out of the crank rolled windows yodeling “yeeeeeehaaaaaw” like Bo and
Luke on the
Dukes of Hazzard while the
car sat in the driveway.
One evening I sneaked
out of the house during a driving rainstorm to use the windshield and hood as a
high speed (albeit short) waterslide.
When the time came in the 5
th grade to trade up to a more
practical Datsun station wagon, I was sad to say goodbye.
By adolescence, the automobile was transforming from an icon
of happy family memories to my sought after means of escape.
In (boarding)
high school I didn’t even have
a drivers’ license let alone a vehicle, but easily found off-campus
misadventures with peers who lived within commuting distance.
My first driving experience occurred shortly
before my 16
th birthday in a friend’s father’s midlife crisis (red
Corvette convertible) with a light tap on the accelerator nearly taking us
through a neighbor’s stone wall, which would have been devastating for my babysitting
career at the time.
Identifying friends
with driving privileges became a top priority for summer vacations at home,
where teenage life with the ’rents was feeling ever more oppressive and unbearable.
I didn’t much care about the destination or
the driver’s safety record as long as I could get away from home.
I longed for fall, college, freedom, and
roadtrips.
 |
| again, not the same car, but a good proximity |
Before leaving for the
institution of higher learning, I earned
my driver’s license but not the means to pay for a vehicle or insurance.
As an avid user of the Student Union’s
rideshare board, however, I could be a virtual hitchhiker from West
Philadelphia to almost anywhere I couldn’t reach by foot, mass transit, or
Greyhound.
When my roommate wrangled possession
of a mechanically functional clunker from her parents to keep near campus, life
was good, bringing downtown restaurants and out of town
Grateful Dead shows
within easy reach.
The fun lasted until
the car was stolen off the street, a situation that took the roommate some
explaining to her parents, since she had redirected the allowance they gave her
for secure garage parking to the college party fund.
With the mastery she exhibited manipulating
the truth of that incident, it’s no wonder she became a successful
attorney including a stint as Assistant D.A. in Manhattan.
On July 14, 1990, I found myself at life’s crossroads on the
side of a Rhode Island highway, being extricated from a mangled car by the Jaws
of Life.
Actually, I “found myself”
about a week later in recovery following a memory-devoid stay in the ICU with
only brief intervals of consciousness.
The driver, a “friend” who later admitted he was driving under the
influence of prescription drugs (unbeknownst to me), had lost control of the
vehicle on Interstate 95 and smashed into an abandoned, hippie sticker covered
VW bus in the breakdown lane.
The
unwitting Flower Power mobile had contributed to a violent event, pinning me
inside with a
pneumothorax, broken ribs, lacerated liver, and
bilateral concussion
that kept me hospitalized for two weeks.
At the time, I didn’t denounce the cars or the driver because I was too
busy figuring out how to get back to Philadelphia without a ride and how to pay
tuition now that my summer wages had hit the brakes too.
 |
| a different VW bus, artful and peaceful outside the library |
Long story short, I took a leave of absence from school and
moved in with a friend whose parents provided plenty of rent, food, and
spending money (in addition to a vehicle) to cover living expenses for two while
I got back on my feet.
Nearly dead in the
passenger’s seat in July, by August, with just a few scars for evidence, I was
in the driver’s seat of a full-size Ford Bronco, learning how to maneuver the
massive vehicle through narrow streets, receiving instruction on highway intimidation
of smaller vehicles, and reviewing the four-wheel -drive instructions before
winter.
Because of the parking hassle, I
usually chose walking for downtown destinations and the city bus for uphill
trips to
Cornell campus (where I transferred in ’91).
Even so, my allegiance to the automobile was
stronger than ever, with the big bad black Bronco making me feel far more
powerful than my diminutive 5’4” frame, a hero to fellow students struggling
through deep snow, and a rock-star to families I worked with in rural areas.
 |
| don't miss the ice scraping |
After graduation, my car dependence increased.
I commuted from New Haven, CT, to NYC for
grad school because fueling the drive was less expensive than paying rent in
the City or taking the train.
Even if I
had used mass transit to get to class, a vehicle was required for the social
work field placement that soon after became my full-time job.
I quickly racked up the miles driving to clients’
homes (families referred by Child Protective Services for
Intensive Family Preservation Services), also providing them with transportation as necessary.
My ride, a white VW Jetta with a sunroof and
the first vehicle under my own name and credit, was my noble steed, carrying me
on a mission to stop child abuse and neglect, my partner in crime-fighting.
 |
| Jetta & me pregnant with #1* |
|
Or so it was until a 3/10/95 car accident brought me to yet
another of life’s crossroads.
In the
second accident as in the first, I was a victim.
The double rear-ending during rush hour
seemed mild in comparison, but the impact left me with
post-concussive syndrome
(compounding the 1990
TBI) and a worker’s compensation case that didn’t settle
until 2001.
In the meantime, I completed
a second
master’s degree, co-founded
Resources for Health with
Moses and assistance from
Yale Law, and gave birth to four of our five children, bringing
us to a mini-van dependent lifestyle.
By
this time we had moved from CT to AZ, and other than some local walks with the
stroller, could conceive of no other way to travel with little ones in the scorching
desert heat than with full air conditioning.
When Moses hurt his back and knee in 2003, we certainly didn’t see any
other options.
With his physical mobility severely limited for the next 7+ years, carfree was not in our vocabulary or thinking. If not previously, we
were officially car dependent then.
The
minivan – a.k.a. the rolling shitbox – was a necessity.
If you're still reading and interested, please stay tuned for the next episode to find out how our Carfree Family migrated from handicapped parking space to bike rack! Like us and stay in touch on Facebook, too.
