Keep driving, keep driving, keep driving, keep driving. . . .

October 22, 2o1o

Today was a blissfully normal day.

At least so far.  It's only 7.15 pm, so there is still plenty of time for a crisis or two.


Pennington's was on my list of things to do today, so after we finished at the Community Kitchen, we went to return the two sweaters I bought for my mother last week.

As predicted, they didn't fit. . .too big.

I took them to her Sunday evening.  She was already in her pjs, sweater on, blanket wrapped around her, evening cleansing completed, meaning her teeth were in their cup, her face was washed, and she was just waiting for her meds.

When I came into her room, she was watching Antiques Roadshow, which meant that, as usual, I was late.

But because I came bearing gifts she was willing to excuse my tardiness.

Buying things for Mum is a crap shoot, and a professional shopper I am not.

And trying things on is always a challenge.

First, I have to extremely careful to ensure I don't do any damage to her hair.

Every two weeks she visits the salon in the nursing home and get her hair done.  She then is particularly careful to make certain that in the next two weeks she keeps her hair as pristine as possible.

Then I have to adjust everything to ensure the proper "fall", meaning it does what it's supposed to do.

Rather than just tell me, say openly, verbalize her discontent, speak her mind, my mother prefers to use "charades" as her preferred method of communication when she is not pleased with something.

In this instance, she wiggled her hand to prove to me that this lovely navy blue cardigan was too big.

The cuff of the sleeve went halfway down her hand.

She looks at me in the way she has always looked at me in such situations.

But this time, just to make sure I was able to capture the meaning of the wiggling hand, she upgrades from charades to show and tell by stating, 

"Too big."

I'm not convinced the sweater was too big for the woman who routinely wears two sweaters and a blanket while the heat blasts away at full capacity.

 In the middle of October.

By January she may need the cardigan with a little room to fit over the five sweaters she wraps around herself.

But what do I know?




My mother has always taken great pride in her appearance.

(I know. WHAT happened to me??????)

She never went anywhere, not even to the grocery store, without making sure she was fully make-uped, everything matched and she had matching shoes.

Even in shorts and a t-shirt, my mother had to look good.

And this included her hair.

On a daily basis, my kids see me with wet hair, notice the long lines of shampoo and conditioner bottles, sitting on the edge of the bath tub like soldiers preparing for battle. 

Because I have long hair, each day is an adventure in what catastrophic coiffure I have created to take out into the public.

I never had these experiences growing up.

In fact, I can count on one hand the number of times I've witnessed my mother sporting a head of wet hair.

How come, you ask?

Were we so wealthy that we had our own private hairdresser?

Not bloodly likely.

But. . . .

When I was growing up, every Thursday evening, my mother would make her weekly trek  into the salon at the Oromocto Mall and have her hair done by Edith.

Edith the hair ripper, I called her.

She once did my hair and attacked my scalp with her hair brush with such ferocity that she  actually forced by head back and if it wasn't for my unusually quick reflexes, my head would have probably smashed into the mirror.

After settling herself at Edith's station, rubber cape wrapped around her shoulders making her look like a smarmy superhero, my mother would look at Edith and simply state,

"The usual, please Edith."

For those of you unfamiliar with Janet-isms, this translates to a wash, set, blowdry, style and hairspray.

Especially hairspray.

Because her turned out tresses had to maintain form until her next visit, my mother made sure her head was lacquered, varnished and enameled within an inch of its life.

Further, not content with just Edith's veneer, she made sure that she applied coat after coat of her own each day until she was able to get back to Edith's chair.

Every morning, or, early afternoon, depending on what shift she worked (my mother was a nurse), you would find my mother in front of the bathroom mirror, ozone depleting, gargantuan size can of hairspray clutched in her hand, while she maneuvered it over her hair with such dizzying intensity that if you happened to walk in on her, all you could see was the shadow of her head through the cloudy fog of hairspray.

Women like my mother all over the world are responsible for the shrinking ozone layer.




My mother always tried to cram as much as possible into any trip into Oromocto. 

How come?

Because she absolutely HATED to drive.

She didn't get her driver's licence until she was 40.

I was 16, my brother was 15. 

The only reason she did this was because she finally had to accept that she was either going to learn to drive, or take out shares in the local taxi company.

My dad's work required a lot of travel, so there were times when he was away for long periods of time. 

We lived in a rural area, so there were no buses, except school buses, and it would take a couple of hours to walk into Oromocto.

So my mother, who did not want to have to cab it back and forth from the hospital everyday, broke down and got her driver's licence.

And on her way back from successfully obtaining her first driver's licence, she was stopped by the police during a routine traffic stop.

This didn't help her already well formed and solid as a rock hatred for driving.

She was a very nervous driver.

Before even igniting the ignition, she had a well established, never-deviated-from-no-matter-what-the-circumstances pre-trip routine. 

In the car, seatbelt securely fastened, mirrors adjusted, purse settled beside her in case she needed a tissue, or mint while driving.

She always had a roll, or several depending on how long we were driving, of Ganongs peppermints in pink, green and white. 

Key in the ignition, she would not turn the car on until the final step was completed.

The lighting of her King Size Benson and Hedges. 

Cigarette clutched tightly between her shaking fingers, window opened a crack, ashtray open, Mum would only then turn the key secured in the ignition, and begin the laborious process of getting the car out of the driveway.

She'd chainsmoke the entire drive. 

No matter how long or short.

She also spoke little and she made sure the radio was never played "too loudly;" she would say, "Dawne, turn that down!  It's screaming in my face!"

If we were going to the mall, she made sure she parked as far from the building as possible to ensure that she would have no trouble getting out.

Under normal circumstances, driving with her was incredibly stressful.

Imagine what would happen if we had the misfortune to be caught in a snowstorm??????

One evening, after getting her hair done, my mother and I walked out of the mall into a snowstorm.

There wasn't even a hint of a flake when we went in.

And nothing was mentioned on the radio, because if it had been, my mother would have NEVER left the house, let alone the driveway.

The mere hint of a flake was enough to ground her.

So you can only imagine the look on her face when we walked out into a full fledged snowstorm.  Wind howling, snow swirling with such savagery that I'm certain she contemplated what it would be like for us to bunk down in the mall for the night. 

Sheer, utter, unfettered panic filled my mother faster than a Tim Horton's employee filling a coffee cup during rush hour.

Maybe even faster than that.

I had a beginner's but there was no way she was going to let me drive.  She may have been terrified and panicking, but she knew at least she would eventually get us home.

Who knows where we would have ended up if I was behind the wheel.

Most likely the ditch, but I try to be optomistic.

Being a strong woman, and knowing that there was only one course of action, and it was not spending the night in the bed section at Woolworth's, my mother accepted her fate with a panicked grace and simply did what she had to do.

Suck it up.

She squared her shoulders, set her jaw, snapped on her gloves, tightly pulled her hood over her just-coiffed hair, and marched into that storm toward the car with an attitude and stride that left no doubt about what she was thinking, but would never say outloud:

F***!

We reach the car.

In my effort to aussage the already building tension, I offered to brush the snow off the car.

She nodded her acceptance of my offer and then slid into the front seat of her two-toned green, four door Chevy Impala (later nicknamed the "bedroom on wheels" but that I'll save for another time), while I grabbed the brush from the backseat and started to clean the car of its snowy blanket. 

While I was cleaning, she was preparing herself for the long, arduous trek home. 

She turned the car on, cranked up the heater, turned on the lights, tightly buckled herself in -- so tightly I was worried she impede her ability to take a complete breath. I get in the car and she spoke the only words she said to be the entire drive home: "Buckle your seatbelt."

She lit a fresh cigarette from the butt of the one she'd just finished, cracked the window open, and off we went. 

Very, very slowly.

The car, that snowy winter's evening, was replete with a tension that was viscous and impenitrable, coming off my mother in waves.

I sat in the passenger sit, uncharacteristically quiet, fearful that if I spoke one word, diverted  her fixed and concentrated gaze from the snowy scene before us, that we would surely end up in a ditch somewhere.

Cars passed us.

Some honked their horns.

While my mother stalwardly maintained her road raptness.

The drive from the Oromocto Mall to our house on the Broad Road was approximately 15-20 minutes depending on the time of day.

On that fateful night, it took us over an hour to get home.

No radio.

No talking. 

I was lucky she let me breath.

The only sounds were the back and forth of the wipers and the click of the car lighter each time it popped out ready to light her next cigarette. 

She white knuckled the steering wheel the entire drive.  When we pulled into the driveway, I had to practically pry her fingers from the wheel. 

Once safely inside the house, she sat down at the kitchen table with a soup bowl sized cup of coffee and drank it until her hands stopped shaking. 

But I'll say this for my mother: she may have hated driving with a passion that could not be contested, but she drove us everywhere we needed to go, some places we wanted to go, and if needed, she'd fill her Chevy Impala with as many of my friends as we could cram in there. 

And for that reason, plus that she was my mother, I gladly served as her second on our rural road adventures. 

Even if it did mean years of therapy when I got older.

And a boyfriend who refused to teach me to drive because everytime a car came toward us, I would pull over to the side of the road.

Leaving him to comment to my mother one evening, "Mrs. Clarke, I love your daughter, but I am NOT going to teach her to drive."

And following in my mother's footsteps, I didn't get a licence until I was 32. 

But never confuse my not having a licence with not driving. 

That would be just silly on your part.   


Title Lyric: Keep Driving by Meat Loaf