My mother never learned to drive a car, even though Daddy offered frequently to teach her, and I couldn’t understand her reluctance. If she had realized how much faster she could have hurried in a car, she’d have learned eagerly. Mama was always in a hurry. She arose at 4 a.m. to start her day. She’d have a huge wash flapping on the line before she threw the bacon in the pan, scrambled the eggs, and awakened the rest of us. When we went to Jacksonville to meet her relatives at the zoo (the relatives lived near the zoo, not in it), she wanted to leave at 4 a.m. so we could beat the morning traffic and hurry back home before it got too late. Nobody but Mama knew exactly when too late was. As we cousins watched the elephants feeding on hay and stared in awe at the crocodiles, Mama checked her watch.
“We probably need to hurry to our picnicking,” she’d say. “I want to get on the road right after lunch.”
I inherited my mother’s drive to hurry, hurry, hurry. I did not inherit the rising at 4 a.m., but I do seem to spend most of my days rushing from one task to another. And unlike my mother, I do know how to drive. (My spouse might disagree because he feels it necessary to instruct me every time we find ourselves in the same car.)
“Mae, the speed limit right here is 45,” Larry says. “Didn’t you see the sign? You turn is only a mile up ahead. Better slow down and turn on your blinker.”
Funny he should mention ...
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