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WHEN OUR KIDS were much younger, we would strap them firmly into their car seats and head off for a drive. Usually on a Sunday and often to a shopping centre where, several hours later, we would inevitably find ourselves divested of a couple of hundred euro, yet have nothing to show for it.
A very far cry from the Sunday Drive of my own childhood, when my siblings and I would pile into a small car typical of the decade and “go somewhere.” Most times, there was a definite and clear destination in mind, but looking back on it now, having the experience of my own parenting trials and tribulations, this Sunday outing was most likely a health and safety issue — in other words, get them out from under their mother’s feet before she makes good on her threats to kill them.
Does anyone do that anymore? Just take off on a jaunt for no good reason other than there might be an ice cream at the end of it?
During my nostalgic trip down memory lane, I was also mindful of the generalisation that back in the 80’s, seat belts were purely an accessory. Today’s RSA would have had a conniption over our fair-weather approach to road safety. A car full of kids, younger ones sitting on the laps of their older sisters, with the youngest crouched in the footwell of the passenger seat and the littlest in stature folded up, pretzel-like, in the back window, resting her head on a pillow. Oh, and there may or may not have been a smoker in the front seat, too, seeing as we’re talking about “those days”. It was a wonder we survived at all.
Another thing… how did we ever manage in the days before GPS? I remember my innocent child-like self being amazed at my father’s knowledge of the country’s roads without even consulting a paper map. His geographical knowledge, it seemed to me, was innate – he just steered the car in the direction of “the drive”, and it took us there. In addition to that, he knew every person he met on our travels. Why else would he lift a finger off the steering wheel to greet other walkers and drivers alike?
Those were the longer journeys, usually seaside bound, a small gas stove amongst the buckets and shovels, towels and sandwiches wedged in between us.
I remember the return trip from a Sunday Drive when my aunt was behind the wheel. The car was still stuffed to the gills with small humans, and on this day, her own children were also in the mix. Without warning, she pulled into the forecourt of a small service station and instructed me to go inside and ask for a few slices of cooked ham for sandwiches for when we got home. A throwback to simpler times, when it was unheard of to ask young people “would they” perform a chore. We never queried the command; we simply did as we were told.
Another weekly Sunday Drive involved taking dinner to an elderly relative, one of us older kids entrusted with the plate covered by a saucepan lid, making sure to hold it in such a way that the gravy didn’t spill over the side and onto bare legs. That drive meant taking a small country road, no bigger than a laneway by today’s standards.
On that same stretch, I recall being in the car on the day my mother had a driving lesson. Just the one. For reasons I won’t go into here. There is an excellent reason why we should leave driving lessons to the professionals. But we all lived to tell the tale.
Strangely enough, a favourite Sunday Drive of my childhood was the one that brought us to the cemetery and the resting places of my grandparents. Nothing to do with the 99 ice cream cones afterwards, I loved roaming about the gravestones, reading the inscriptions carved into them, soaking up the ghostly atmosphere.
Perhaps it was bearing witness to those endless childhood excursions that fed into my late arrival to the learning to drive racket. I may have been afraid of the school runs, extracurricular activity drop-offs and collections, health appointments, nightclub collections, etc. Maybe on a subliminal level, as a child, I decided I didn’t want any part of that as an adult.
As it is, I am not a natural driver. I struggle with directions and merging traffic. I get stressed when I have to navigate a new route, so I will avoid this at all costs, always opting to take the long way around over the faster, more direct option, aka the motorway.
I do, however, still very much enjoy being the passenger in a moving vehicle. I can leave the anxiety of sitting behind the wheel and being cognisant of the messiness of other road users to someone else. It’s OG mindfulness. A keen reader, this is the only time I opt not to take full advantage of an opportunity to read, preferring instead to swap out the world of words for the real-life one going on outside the window. Enjoying nature, the colour of the sky, and indulging in some litter shaming directed at those who leave their rubbish on the roadside.
The term Sunday Drivers is often uttered with a roll of the eyes. The pesky slow movers of a Sunday are seen as a scourge for those locked into the endless cycle of modern busyness. Too slow, too cautious. But for a lot of us, possibly those of a certain age, the Sunday Drive has different connotations involving picnics, an easy listening radio station and the open road in front of us. A less frantic time, far away from a shopping centre.
Maybe, given the extraordinary numbers of lives lost on our roads, we should all hope to channel our own inner Sunday Drivers a little more. Reclaim the slow and steady spin. What’s the point in rushing? Take the long way. Enjoy the scenery. And for God’s sake, buckle up.
Gwen Loughman is the gatekeeper of four boys, one husband and a watcher over two dogs.
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