Should my dad still be driving? Plus two other questions about cars.

1) Should my dad still be driving? 

Two years ago, at the age of 87, my dad bought a new car. It was a pale gold Toyota Corolla. I wasn't pleased. Not that it was a bad car. I actually quite liked it. But I'd been hoping he'd take the death of the old Ford Taurus as a sign he should stop driving.

In those days whenever he drove me somewhere I'd start wishing it was me behind the wheel, not him. I looked for slow reaction times, and took notice if he drifted in his lane, and I got especially nervous if he had only one hand on the wheel. But then I wondered if I was being ageist. I myself drove with one hand on the wheel all the time. So if he were a younger man and drove the exact same way would I have worried? I wasn't sure.

It would mean a big change if he had to quit driving. My parents' house was twenty minutes from the closest store on foot, and my mom didn't drive, so they'd have to move or take a lot of cabs. 

I decided as long as I didn't actively fear for my life when he was driving, or the lives of other people, he was probably fine. And I was grateful that each year he had to get tested before his license was renewed, even if it was only a written test.  

Then this year, in the middle of June he handed me the keys when we were on the way to get him an ultrasound. He said he felt tired. So I finally ended up behind the wheel instead of him. After that I drove him all the time, but the only places we ever went were doctors' offices and the hospital. 

2) Mitten, marauder or moustache? 

Edwin the brave kitten investigates (Photo Anita Ayres).

My dad's gone now, but the Corolla is still parked in my parents' garage. The estate lawyer said it didn't make sense to put it in my mom's name because she couldn't drive it. So in September on my monthly visit to Ottawa to make sure my mom's okay I went to the Service Ontario office with a pile of paperwork (the death certificate, the will, proof of insurance, safety check, etc) and walked out with a pink slip that had my name on it.

I've never owned a car before. One thing I hadn't anticipated was how hard it would be to keep track of which car was mine. I see gold Corollas everywhere now.

After my parents bought it, they started noticing gold Corollas too.  It turns out 2012 was a very popular year for Corollas.  It was the year the Corolla overtook the Ford F-150 as the best selling vehicle of all time. 

To keep track of which was theirs, my parents made up an acronym to go with the license plate, so BNMP 453 became Brave Neutered Male Pussycat.  (I like to think the name was a tribute to my Edwin, who at the time was a brave recently-neutered kitten.)

Sadly, transferring the ownership meant getting new plates for the Corolla. Now my mom and I are having trouble coming up with an acronym that's as memorable for BVRM 875. My favourite is Big Velvety Red Moustache, but my mom says moustaches can't be velvety. Others we've tried and rejected include:

- Beth's Vehicle Remember Mother (too literal)
- Big Venomous Reptile Marauder (too evil)
- Beautiful Violet Reflective Mittens (too random)

I've always thought vanity plates were a bit silly.  But maybe one reason people get them is just because they have bad memories? 

3) Is my car haunted? 

For the longest time, whenever I got behind the wheel of my new car, the first thing I'd notice was the dust on the dashboard and the salt scum on the floor mats.  It made me feel like a bad car caretaker. I'd think about how unwell my dad must have been feeling last spring, that he never took it in to get cleaned. A lot of dust is just dead skin, so I'd think about how I was sitting there in a cloud leftover from my dad. I kept wanting to clean the car, but my visits to my mom are always rushed, so I never had time. 

This week I'm in Ottawa again, and I was driving past the Minute Car Wash today when I realized I actually had the time to stop in.  Never having owned a car before, I wasn't sure what to expect.  I had to hand over my key to an unenthusiastic man in a parka. He gave me a ticket, pointed me to a waiting room, and said it would be twenty minutes.  The waiting room did not inspire confidence. There were plastic plants, and a table set up with stale coffee, and a Cold Drinks vending machine that looked like it had been there since 1973. But there was also a big glass window from which I could watch the team of three cleaners go at my dad's car, and they seemed to be doing so with great efficiency. There were vacuums and hoses and spray bottles all being deployed. 

When I got back in, the car smelled of Windex. The salt gunk was gone from the mats, the windows were spotless, and the dashboard was dust free, except for some clinging to the steering wheel base. 

I thought about complaining about those bits of remaining dust, but then I realized I was glad.  There are still a few bits of my dad left to keep me company. Me behind the wheel. Him not.