My husband, the Brit, spent the first half of his life in London, where they drive on the wrong side of the road. But try and tell them that! Once he moved to America, he had to retrain his drive train and, for 40 years, worked as a sales representative for confectionary and cigar companies in Los Angeles. He also became a very adept driver and has never had a ticket, which, he believes, entitles him to be the field marshal of all road trips, long or short. When the Brit drives, he is cool and in control, but when I take the wheel he becomes like my first car: overheated and falling apart.
I have been driving since I was a kid, when my uncle let me steer the tractor around the fields on my grandparents’ dairy farm in Spokane. I admit, I have had my small share of tickets for minor transgressions, but having a child has made me a much better driver. So has being married to a nervous noodge!
Whenever I am permitted to steer our Nissan around town, I am subjected to a continuous litany of anxious verbiage: “Watch the road! Keep both hands on the wheel! For God’s sake, look out for that cyclist! Watch your speed! Mind the stop sign!”
Recently we took our grandson, Mini-Brit, to the Monterey Bay Aquarium. The Brit drove there, and I drove back down the Coast Highway to enjoy the views. This was while Highway 1 was being repaired following a landslide, so I checked the California Highway Patrol website for road conditions. It indicated that the highway was now open. But 100 miles out of Monterey proved the CHP site misleading. We were faced with either driving back to Monterey to pick up the 101 or driving the single-lane road over the mountains through Fort Ligett. Considering the gas prices these days, Fort Ligett it was!
I’m a mountain gal from way back, having grown up in hilly areas in Washington and Arizona. But the Brit’s closest encounter with mountains has been the “Famous Peaks” topic on Jeopardy.
We turned onto Fort Ligett Road and proceeded up the steep terrain to the crest-line.
“How far up does this go?” Brit queried nervously.
“Only 7,000 feet, honey.”
He roared back, “7,000 feet? Bloody hell!”
“Don’t worry, I’ve got this,” I said soothingly.
As we climbed he cried, “What if another car is coming down? This road’s only one lane wide!” I calmly replied, “You just compromise and scoot over a little.” “Scoot over? Where? Over the edge? You’re all nuts!” he exclaimed.
“Keep it up and you’ll be the only nut going over the edge,” I said through clenched teeth.
Sure enough, a car came around a hairpin curve and I veered a bit to the side for it to pass to the sounds of weeping and gnashing of teeth. At this point, Mini-Brit spoke up from the back seat: “Granddad, language, please! We’re not French, you know!”
As we reached the crest-line, I suggested that Brit relax and enjoy the gorgeous view. “Screw the view! This is a bloody circus of horrors,” he screamed. General Lord Cornwallis wanted to beat a retreat back down to Monterey. But I’m a soldier’s daughter, and we were not backing down, especially since that was the only way back down this road, which had no place to turn around.
I should have remembered how much fun road trips with my husband are after the last journey, when I picked him up at LAX Airport after his return from Wales to visit his brother. When I put him on the plane, I made sure he took off his tennis shoes and wore slippers, since he takes various medications and blood flow to his legs and feet is paramount. He followed my advice and had a terrific flight across the pond.
But he neglected to follow that advice on his return flight and got off the plane, tennies tied tight. Fluid had accumulated in his legs and feet and we had to stop every 50 miles so he could “relieve” the pressure. I finally made him take off his shoes, put on his slippers, prop his feet on the dashboard, and put his seat back. The effect was immediate: Niagara Falls! Slowly we turned off the road; step by step he’d run to a restroom.
As night fell, we entered Santa Barbara and became desperate. It was late, places had closed, no restrooms. I pulled off a side street, found some shrubs, and he quickly watered someone’s flowers. The poor man’s ordeal continued as we reached the pitch-black darkness of Santa Ynez.
“Stop the car, I need to go again.”
I said, “Okay, sweetheart, but don’t step away from the car.” I didn’t want him to stumble down a ravine into a barbed-wire pasture where an angry bull, or worse, hungry calf might be awake. So what does he do? He moves away from the car, stumbles, and squeals, “Bloody damn! I’ve lost my slipper and there’s stickers out here and I’ve pissed myself!”
I jumped out and checked on Mini-Brit. The little man was asleep on the back seat, so I went to attend to the big baby screaming bloody murder outside. I fetched him back to the car, brought him dry clothes, and searched for his slipper.
“Leave the flippin’ slipper behind,” he yelled.
“If I leave anything behind, it’s not going to be the slipper,” I shouted back.
That’s when my mind began to race: What if I left him here? Surely the CHP would pick him up or someone would take pity on the poor soul and give him a ride. Suffice it to say, I found the slipper, put him back in the car, and, after two more pit stops, we made it home. My bed never felt better, and my fearless Brit still wears those flippin’ slippers.
Ariel Waterman and the Brit will be sharing the drive to Orange County for a family reunion. Send prayer requests via editor Ryan Miller at rmiller@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in Jul 28 – Aug 4, 2011.
