Drive

The envelope is postmarked September 21, 1961. 6:30pm. Upper Darby, PA. Inside is a letter from a twenty-six year-old man to his younger brother, a young man stationed at Fort Sam Houston in Texas for military basic training. The letter begins with:

Things have happened! 1. I got a driver’s license. 2. Bought a car. 3. Can get in and out of car alone. 4. I start St. Joe’s night school Monday. All of a sudden your lazy brother has regained some of his drive and become a dynamo.

The writer was my father. At the time he wrote his brother, it was almost three years since he had been paralyzed by the polio virus.

The handwriting is scratchy, with blurred and abbreviated words that are sometimes difficult to make out. I am able to read it probably because I learned as a young boy how my dad formed certain letters on the page.

He was proud of himself, despite his matter-of-fact tone. The two page communication shares details of his purchase of hand controls, how he borrowed a car to learn how to use them, taking and passing the driver’s test, and then purchasing a two-door Valiant.

I was a little upset about going so far into debt so that as soon as we got the car home (before I paid any money) I told Carol that if I couldn’t get in by myself – the hell with it.

With help from my mom, he describes figuring it out, first getting in by himself, then getting out by himself (or, as he wrote, reversing the procedure). He concludes his description of relearning to drive with Now all the remains is for me to get some adaptations made to the car so that I can get the chair in and out by myself – then I will be free.

“Free.” In November of 1958, my father was twenty-three and fresh out of military service. He and my mom had a two year-old son (my brother) and barely a dollar to their name. Dad had gotten a job selling insurance for New England Life. Mom was pregnant with me. There was a general plan for more education – for Dad, as a first generation college student. Then a stranger sneezed in his face when he was waiting to use a pay phone. A few days later, a bad flu followed. Paralysis. Eight months in acute and rehabilitative hospitals. And my birth in June of 1959.

This letter is written over two years later. I know from family stories that the intervening time between my birth and Dad’s declaration in a streaky fountain pen of regaining his drive were not easy. They involved my aunts and uncles helping my mom help (i.e. lift) Dad up and down steps, into and out of cars. Wheelchairs that weighed almost as much as he did. Relearning how to do simple things such as using silverware, writing, and, yes, driving. An understanding company that kept my father’s position available for him – for when he was finally able to navigate his way from my parents’ second story apartment to the company third floor office across town.

And being “free”.

I received this letter just two weeks ago. My aunt and uncle are moving from their house and, in the process of sorting through decades of memorabilia, my aunt discovered the letter that my uncle had kept from so long ago. Mom and Dad have passed; other than my aunt and uncle, there are very few people alive who were with my parents in the year that the letter was written. I have only Dad’s written words in this letter, a few old photos, and my own memories of stories he and my mom occasionally told us when we asked about their lives from that time. Mom didn’t especially enjoy reliving those years through remembrances; she would mumble something about living in the present. Dad would get a hazy look on his brow. His eyes conveyed what I understood without words. Once he told me: “We learned how to make it work. That was the only thing to do.”

Now this letter. The second page reads like a simple recounting of mundane facts. He received a full scholarship and enrolled in night school, with a major in accounting. The insurance company was moving their offices into the city – so things should start to shape up. Then, informed by his own basic training experience in the Southwest, Dad told my uncle about a great smorgasbord in San Antonio. Two dollars for all you can eat. He closed the letter with a note to my uncle to take care of yourself and enjoy the sun (Hurricane Ethel is supposed to hit here tomorrow).

We all encounter our moments in life, circumstances that challenge us, situations that humble and sometimes bring us, quite literally, to our knees. Some of us have more to deal with than others: the birth lottery can be cruel; bad things happen to good people; tragedy traumatizes the innocent. Explanations for the seemingly random and fickle nature of fate are few. For me, this found letter from 1961 offers a simple reminder that, when difficulty befalls, the way forward is in front.

Just drive. You never know where life’s journey will lead.