My Grandma driving was all knuckle and bobble hat. Her car smelt like a washed ashtray. It was also possessed by the soul of a departed madman who had a penchant for switching on her turn signal. She assumed other motorists very polite as they passed waving their hands out of rolled-down windows. A ride with Grandma had the potential to fright or delight in equal measure.
It was a sticky Friday. The kind of heat that made men adjust themselves. Grandma had given me one of her stares when I got in her Oldsmobile – I was probably wearing the wrong shoes.
Our destination was the state cemetery. She always rushed to get there even though Grandad wasn’t going anywhere.
Perhaps, the heat under her hat got to her but a few miles out she just floored it. The car roared. The rush of air through the windows sounded like a jet. Her bobble wobbled as her face beamed.
“Grandma! Slow down” I screamed.
‘I’ve been going slow for the last eighty years. I am done waiting,' She shouted.
She squeezed her knuckles so tight; her hands almost looked white.
“You’re breaking the limit… If we get pulled over?”
“I’ve been getting pulled over for obeying the rules my whole damn life. No more.”
On June 19th, 1992, for the first time in her life, my Grandma broke the rules. Two weeks later she went back to the cemetery. She’s still there.