The Age of Driving

He washed the car, then sat behind the wheel, silently staring out the windshield.

It broke my mom's heart, but she knew it was the right thing to take away his keys.

My dad had blown through a stop sign because he got tired of waiting and almost had an accident. That's when my mom had the conversation with him.

"If we got into an crash and we were seriously injured, that would be one thing. But if I let you get behind the wheel, and you injured or killed someone else, I could never forgive myself."

This was in the early stages of my dad's Alzheimer's. It was difficult but necessary.

Years later, my mom would come to us and say she was having a hard time distinguishing between the red and green on the traffic signal. It was her way of telling us she knew it was time for her to become a permanent passenger.

I read in the news today that an 88-year-old woman killed a young girl who was walking along the road. There is a hue and cry on social media for getting all old people off the road. Lots of young people saying things like anyone over the age of 70 needs to hand in their keys.

Hold on there, Tonto.

I have long been an advocate of retesting people over, say, the age of 75. I believe there should be something more than an eye test, something that checks the reflexes of older drivers. And, if they can't pass the test, their license should be revoked. However, just because someone reaches an advanced age, it does not mean they are no longer able to drive. Doubtless, there are drivers of an advanced age who are still perfectly able to operate a motor vehicle. Age alone should not be the determining factor.

Conversely, I believe we need to do a better job with young drivers. This is a controversial idea, but I believe 18 should be the minimum age for operating a vehicle. And that we need to do a more comprehensive job of teaching young folks how to drive. Putting someone behind the wheel and telling them to "go" isn't enough. Practical on-the-road experience is vital, but defensive driving skills are also essential, and I definitely think we could do better.

Distracted driving is the primary cause in many accidents. The cell phone has certainly added another layer of opportunity for mayhem, but it's not the only contributing factor. Other passengers (friends, small children, dogs) can cause the driver to lose concentration. As can fiddling with the car's controls or audio system. Or eating. Or spilling hot coffee. Or applying makeup or brushing hair. I'm sure insurance adjusters have heard it all.

I don't ever get behind the wheel of a car without a little frisson of apprehension. The "what-ifs" volley through my brain like a bullet train. I remind myself that my car is built to take me where I need to go, but it is also a big, heavy object capable of inflicting injury. Also, I cannot control what other drivers do, so my life depends on them doing the right thing, too.

All in all, I'd rather be chauffeured.

But until I win the lottery, or until I'm no longer able to drive, I'll have my hands at the 10 and 2 position.

And, although I may be singing along with Patsy Cline or Carole King, my attention at all times, has gotta be on the road (again).

Pagans and Pterosaurs

I decided to take a day off so that Mr. Ginley and I could celebrate the summer solstice.

First off was a visit to the Cleveland Museum of Natural History to visit the pterosaurs.

I'm not overly into dinosaurs in general, but Mr. wanted to see the exhibit, and I'm always up for something different, so off we went. The collection is only going to be at the museum for another few weeks, so it was time.

Pterosaurs (also/formerly known as pterodactyls) had a pretty good run -- 150 million years. I can't get my head around this, particularly since modern humans have only been around 200,000 years or so.

Until their extinction 66 million years ago, there were over 150 species of pterosaurs, some small enough to sit on your hand, others large enough to dominate the skies. They had membrane-like wings that spread out from their ring fingers, walked on four legs and could take off from a standing position. Neither bird nor bat nor dinosaur, these amazing reptiles were nonetheless a little of each. They evolved to be the first creatures that could fly.

After looking at a collection of fossils and pterosaur models, and interacting with the interactive stuff, we visited the museum store, a requisite for us at museums, where we bought a magnet for Mr. Ginley and a plush owl for me (apropos of nothing, except both owls and pterosaurs fly).

We headed home and rested up for an evening of pagan rituals -- although, technically, the solstice had occurred at 6:07 a.m. While a visit to Stonehenge would have been totally awesome, we had to settle for Lakewood Park's festivities. The idea was to party hardy and watch the sun set. We enjoyed vittles from the age-old tradition of food trucks. There was a drum circle and yoga and lots of people-watching (our go-to activity for the evening). We chomped, strolled and sat by the lake, watching the waves crash on the breakers. Unfortunately, Mother Nature refused to cooperate, and the clouds obscured the sunset. So we left the party before what we suspected would be a disappointing climax.

All in all, it was an enjoyable day off the hacienda. And a swell way to greet summer.

Welcome to ice cream season!

Grad Tidings

June 10th was the 41st anniversary of the day I graduated from Normandy High School.

I remember riding a yellow school bus with my fellow graduates to Blossom Music Center, which is in the back of beyond. It was a long ride, but I was pretty sure it was still in Ohio. I vaguely recall thinking about my future. My career path at that point was aimed toward being a secretary. My lifelong objective had been to slog my way through school and graduate so I could get on with life. Well, there I was, on the bus, ready to do just that. With little clue as to the "what's next?"

Once we got to Blossom, we went through the rehearsal. It was hot and boring. My parents arrived later, and at some point, I changed into my dress. And yes, I wore platform shoes for the occasion. They were white and had criss-cross straps, and wasn't I the little fashion maven?

Clumping my way across the stage, I shook hands with someone, probably the school principal, who told me to smile. I wanted to tell him to bite my ass. But I needed to graduate without fanfare, so I kept it to myself, ignored the camera and accepted my diploma as the shutter clicked.

The rest is a blur. My parents gave me a watch, which I had picked out at Kogler Jewelry & Appliance store, an all-purpose emporium that offered shoppers a little bit of everything. The bracelet watch I chose was a slim model with a box clasp, and the case was tagged with a tiny diamond. My celebration also involved a cake that my mom baked. But parties weren't a thing, at least in our house. So the event came and went without much of a blip on the radar.

My mother ensured that sunbathing my summer away was not going to be an option, so I started reading through the want ads for secretarial positions. I don't remember going to a lot of different interviews before I was hired at USF&G (United States Fidelity & Guarantee), an insurance company in downtown Cleveland. I took the bus every day and got off at 30th and Euclid. The offices hadn't been redecorated since the 1950's, and sported linoleum floors and old metal desks that were built like tanks. The building had a musty air about it. But there was a decent lunchroom for breaks and the midday meal, which I brought with me a brown paper bag, as there weren't any fast food places nearby.

My job was to operate a dictaphone machine and transcribe recorded conversations between the persons who had been in an accident and the claims adjuster. Both parties involved in the accident were interviewed. Then the adjuster had to determine who was telling the truth. It was really pretty interesting. As I typed, I'd take in not just the words but the tone of the speaker and tried to decide, if I was the adjuster, whom I would believe.

It was a good first out-of-school job, but by the end of the summer, I was getting restless and a little bored. And in the fall, my friend, Judy, offered me a job at the place where she worked.

Looking back, it's hard to believe I had no plan at all. I just sort of drifted into things. These days, we expect our children to know what they want to do with their lives. Who they want to be. And how they're going to get there. I suppose if I had been that way, I wouldn't have ended up where I am. There are days when I wonder where I would have been, if I hadn't been open to jumping onto whatever train was passing by.

But, on the whole, I think I'm okay with how it all worked out.

Choo-choo!

Rockin' the Red

Mr. Ginley set up the recording for Thursday night's Game 5 of the Stanley Cup playoffs.

He'd been too nervous to watch the playoff games, so we went out for a walk to burn off the nervous tension. The only other walker we encountered was a guy about our age, who was wearing a Capitals t-shirt.

"It's an omen," I said, after Mr. Ginley hailed the fellow traveler with "Go Caps!" We very seldom see anyone in our neck of the words wearing Capitals gear.

Later that evening, our son joined us for the third period. My husband was calm, insisting he knew we were going to win. It didn't look like a sure thing to me. At that point we were down 3-2.

Then, the tying goal. And the winning goal. Much screaming and hugging. And pacing (me) until the clock, after malfunctioning, wound its way down to zero.

The Washington Capitals won the Stanley Cup!!!

Euphoria enveloped the house.

It all began in 1983, when my brother-in-law took my husband to his first Capitals game. In turn, Mr. Ginley got me hooked in 1987 when we moved to Virginia. It turned out that my employer, Kay Jewelers, was a sponsor of the Capitals, so I sometimes got free tickets to the games.

During those years, when the Capitals were out of contention, we would root for Wayne Gretzky and the Edmonton Oilers, who were amazing to watch. We would have to wait over 30 years to see the Capitals raise the Cup.

Year after year, it was the other guys' turn. The Blackhawks. The Kings. The Bruins. And, of course, the dreaded Penguins. Teeth were gnashed. Tears were shed. Hearts were broken. And yet, the good guys walked away empty-handed.

Until Thursday night.

How sweet it was.

If this feat is a once-in-a-lifetime thing, I'm okay with that. Ovechkin, Backstrom, Holtby, Kuznetsov and their merry band of puck chasers achieved the ultimate prize in hockey. And our dream.

And those of us who love the Capitals, including Coach Trotz and Uncle Ted, will walk a little taller and smile a little brighter in the days to come.

Way to go, Caps!

Breaking Up is (Not so) Hard to Do

"Do you want the good news or the bad news?" inquired Mr. Ginley. I had just walked in the door after having breakfast with my son.

Before I could reply, he held my brand new coffee maker aloft. It was still in the manufacturer's box.

"The good new is, it arrived this morning. The bad news is..."

He shook the box, and the tinkling sound of glass shards could be heard.

"Where is the outer box?" I asked Mr. Ginley. "You know, the one they shipped it in."

"This IS the box they shipped it in," he replied. He turned it around, and sure enough, there was the shipping label.

"You mean to tell me that I order a CD, and they package it in a box the size of a microwave and pack it with air-filled pillows, but I order a coffee maker with a glass carafe, and they just pull it off the shelf, slap a label on it, toss it in the truck, and dump it on my doorstep?"

Yep. Grrr.

I went to the computer and filed my request for a refund from that BIG COMPANY which sells all that stuff online but whom shall remain nameless. (But their name is the same as a major rain forest.)

To my surprise, I was charged $1.00 for the privilege of returning my broken item. Even though I explained that it arrived that way.

A few days later, when my refund was processed, I was not surprised to learn that the $1.00 fee had not been returned. On the advice of a friend, I went to their Facebook page and aired my displeasure.

I figured I would at least get a "gee, we're sorry for the inconvenience."

What I got was deleted from their Facebook page.

So, off I went to Target and did what I should have done in the first place. I bought my coffee maker and transported it to its destination the old-fashioned way. And, guess what? It arrived safe and sound.

There are three takeaways from my experience. First, when my Prime Membership comes up next time, I will be declining it. Second, I will be doing a lot less buying from these guys. And third, I no longer believe this company is the savior of retail.

When a company starts to take its customers for granted, it's headed for a downward slide. Maybe not right away, but it's inevitable.

No company is bigger than the customers who support it. Yet, it's a lesson so many companies have had to learn. Some get it and adapt. Others never do, and they disappear over time. They will blame it on fickle consumers, lack of loyalty, blah blah blah. But the real reason is that most folks will not shout their displeasure from the rooftop. They will just quietly take their business elsewhere.

I am learning there are many things I can do without.

And a lot of them come from the you-know-where.