I’m turning eighty-one in September, and it’s become clear that I have to give up some of the things that have brought me great pleasure over the years. I actually started my renunciations three years ago, when I quit smoking. As any ex-smoker will admit, even after you’ve endured the pangs of withdrawal and find yourself safe and smoke-free, with your sense of smell fully restored, your hacking cough gone, and your self-esteem boosted because you prevailed over an addiction doctors say is more stubborn than that involving heroin, there will be moments when you miss the cancer-sticks terribly. These cravings have become less powerful recently, but they still occur, and I remember how goddamn good it felt to light up a Marlboro after taking my first sip of coffee in the morning. Of course some health freaks think coffee’s a poison, too, but it doesn’t seem to bother the Scandinavians, the Italians. or the South Americans, so the fanatics can go sit on tacks.
After having both kneecaps replaced, I realized I’d have to give up horseback riding. I’ve loved horses since I was given a Welsh pony by my paternal grandparents as a consolation prize after my parents’ divorce- hey, Mum and Dad stop screaming and swearing at each other every night, and I get a pony? Good deal!- so renouncing riding came hard. But I graduated from the pony to full-sized horses a long time ago- Thoroughbred hunters in North Carolina, cow-pony/draft crosses in Wyoming- and as the rodeo saying goes, “There ain’t a horse that can’t be rode, and there ain’t a rider that can’t be throwed.” One fall, and my new knees could get busted, leaving me to spend the rest of my life riding a wheelchair.
I used to enjoy distance running. I was never up to marathons, but some years back I ran about five miles three days a week. Not just jogging; I ran full out for at least part of each course. Unfortunately, I failed to do the proper stretches and warm-up exercises before galloping off, and as a result I injured my legs and spine. I had an operation to undo the damage, and a physical therapist worked me through a series of conditioning exercises at a New York hospital, three times a week; nowadays I can walk a couple of miles several days a week. The problem is getting motivated: in New York City it’s easy: I just carry a shopping bag and turn my walk into a trip to the supermarket. Here in New Hampshire, where the markets are too far to reach on foot, I’ve had to get creative, driving to the shopping center, parking the car, and putting in a mile or two going up and down the walkway, sitting on a bench for a moment when my back twinges, before doing my shopping.
I used to have a substantial beer-gut, because I downed about a six-pack a day, often more. My father essentially drank himself to death, so I am genetically predisposed to alcoholism. But banning the beer was surprisingly easy: I had to quit drinking alcohol of any kind for ten days before having a second back operation (it turned out that the first surgeon hadn’t completely repaired my back), and after the procedure I stayed off the suds. My gut shrank, and although I still carry a few extra pounds, my primary care physician is satisfied with my weight. I still drink wine, and even have a cocktail or two – gin and tonic in the spring and summer, bourbon and water in the fall and winter – but only at parties or in restaurants.
My last renunciation initially struck me as the most difficult. Growing up in New York City, I didn’t need to drive anywhere; subways, buses, or cabs took me anywhere I needed to go. But after college I was drafted, and during my two years as a military policeman in West Germany, I passed a driver’s test and tooled around in jeeps and trucks on various errands having to do with my mission of Serving Proudly On Freedom’s Frontier (my unit’s motto). Most of my Proud Service consisted of making the weekly laundry run to and from the town of Pirmasens in a two-and-a-half-ton truck or taking the post’s Commanding Officer or Executive Officer in a jeep to see their German schatzies and returning to pick them up next morning. Sometimes the CO, who took a shine to me because I had gone to college and wasn’t as dumb as the rednecks who Served Proudly with me, just wanted to have a few drinks at the Goldener Engel bar in Baumholder. He would treat me to a beer or three, which is how I learned to drive drunk.
I finally got a driver’s license and a vehicle to go with it while I was working at a regional theater in Rochester, Michigan. My ride cost me all of $200: a rusty Pontiac station wagon I called the Gray Ghost, because, thanks to the additional $200 I spent to get it up to street code, it had risen from the dead. The Ghost had an extraordinary afterlife. It made four round trips from Rochester to New York, where I had settled with my actress wife Louise, and several trips from New York to Cape Cod, where it carried the paint and equipment for a house painting company I started with my brother, before it gave itself up for good.
When Patsy and I bought our house in Peterborough, we needed two vehicles: a new one for long trips, and a used one for grocery shopping and trips to the town dump, or for me to use when Patsy had to stay in New York or go somewhere without me. Over the years we’ve gone through one Ford Fiesta, three Honda Accords, and three pickup trucks, all bought used. They’ve all gone to Scrapyard Heaven. Rest In Pieces.
Ultimately we wound up with a swanky Subaru Outback, which we named Sheila, because ”outback” suggests Australia, and Sheila is Ozzie for girl. Our cars have all been girls; the trucks, guys. OK, so I’m unPC about automotive gender roles… Come to think of it, that little Fiesta may have been trans; we should have called them Lola).
We had a thoroughly used Oldsmobile 88 we called Aggie after my southern great-aunt, who was elderly but still vigorous. I thought of calling her Aretha, after the Detroit-born First Lady of Soul, but I doubted if Ms. Franklin would have appreciated having an old car named after her.
Aggie was a wonder. Even on freezing mornings she started right up, and she ran like a top for years. Regular visits to Joe McGregor, the car doctor in Bennington, kept her in good health. But the harsh New Hampshire winters gradually wore her out. Salt laid down by the snow-plows ate a hole in her exhaust pipe, she developed an ominous knock, and the windshield wipers suddenly couldn’t be turned off unless I pulled to the side of the road, shut off the ignition, and turned it back on again. Finally Joe told us that it would cost more than Aggie was worth to make the repairs she needed in order to pass inspection. I got misty-eyed, remembering a drawing by the Montana storyteller and artist Will James that showed an old cowpoke turning his head aside and weeping as he prepared to fire a bullet through his Ford Model T’s carburetor. They shoot horses, don’t they?
Joe got an abandoned car that was in good shape, and I wanted to buy it as soon as the title was clear. But Patsy gently reminded me that I had had a few fender-benders with Aggie, all of which were my fault. Nobody had gotten hurt, but paying for the damage had been expensive. She suggested that it was time for me to stop driving.
I sputtered and fulminated at first. Give up driving? That would mean giving up my independence, my freedom of motion! She reminded me that we still had the Outback, and she could take me wherever I needed to go. I told her I hated it when she was right.
I have changed, then, from proud Man the Driver to humble Man the Passenger. And is it really a devolution? I was never a truly good driver. I was nervous behind the wheel, and prone to getting lost because I have no sense of direction.
All in all, it’s a relief to relinquish command of the car, look out the side window at the passing scene, and listen to the radio Patsy and I have the same taste in music, so we sing along with our favorite songs and the time flies because we’re having fun.
