Marriage Skits for Laughter and Learning
produced
by
Nancy Landrum
Passing the Baton: A Letter to my Dad
by Nancy Landrum
Dear Dad,
It was 1961 and I was sixteen. I had just earned a driver's license and, like all teen drivers, jumped at every opportunity to use it. A prescription was needed from our small town pharmacy. I quickly volunteered to pick it up.
My first solo drive! And in Mom's new, blue '58 Chevy! I was so excited! I felt so cool behind the wheel... so in charge, grown up, competent!
I cruised down the highway, starting the left turn signal far in advance of the required turn down a side street. I glanced ahead for oncoming traffic and began to turn. Halfway into the oncoming lane, a nightmare began to unfold. A monster appearing to be a brown pickup truck began to materialize in the space that, just a moment before, had been empty! As it headed relentlessly for the Chevy's right front fender, I lay my forehead down on my hands against the steering wheel to protect my head as well as attempt to block out the reality of what was eminent. The sound of squealing brakes and crunching metal made it very clear that this was not a nightmare from which I could awaken, but sickeningly real.
More than the fender was crushed. My euphoric pride in growing up and being trusted with an important responsibility lay in jagged pieces all around me. Now, all I wanted was to crawl into a dark hole and stay there 'til the Second Coming. To make the situation even more humiliating, the driver of the truck was the father of a boy I had known since kindergarten, and the first person to stop and help was the mother of another classmate. Why couldn't it at least have been strangers who saw me so exposed?
But the worst was still to come.....facing you with my irresponsibility. I'd been trusted with a valuable car and an important task, and had been so full of myself that I hadn't been careful. I dreaded the verbal "licking" I'd get and was ashamed of letting you down.
I pulled the car off to the side of the road. After an eternity, I looked in the rear view mirror and saw you parking behind me. You walked up to the driver's side window. I braced myself.
"What happened, honey?" was all that came out of your mouth. I was prepared for anger, but sympathy and concern completely unnerved me. My attempts to look dignified failed, and the tears gushed out.
"I didn't even SEE him!" I wailed.
You handed me your handkerchief and kept telling me, "It's all right, honey. It's all right."
I gladly relinquished my independence and emotionally ran back to the safety of your protection. You did whatever must be done about tow trucks, exchanging phone numbers and insurance.... all the stuff I hadn't learned yet. Then you drove me home and let me curl up on my bed to recover.
Forty years later I still value what you gave to me that day. Your actions said, loud and clear, that I was more important than the car; that mistakes happen, and most of them can be fixed;that I was forgiven for being young and careless.
Years later, my son, Peter, was sixteen. He borrowed my station wagon to attend a high school play. I was out for the evening, and when I drove up to the house, the wagon was parked in front with the front bumper skewed and the fender dented. My first thought was that he must be unhurt enough to have driven home. My second thought was of how you handled my first accident.
Hearing me drive up, Peter burst out the front door and began explaining as he rushed toward me. The driver of the other car was a friend of his whose mother was on the phone giving Pete a hard time.
I hugged him and said, "Peter, right now it doesn't matter what happened. You can tell me later. I'm just glad you're all right. Let me talk to her and you go sit down and try to relax." So I took the phone and let the upset woman talk until she began to calm down.
Because there was a discrepancy in stories, the next day Peter and I drove to the scene of the accident, reconstructing the events. While on the way, I told Pete about my first accident, and how you were so gentle with me, and how grateful I was because I already felt terrible. I made sure he knew that he was much more important to me than the car. I said how glad I was that the old wagon had big fenders! I reassured him that we would work out whatever had to be done to clean up the mess.
He responded by telling me how much it meant to him that I wasn't mad and that I believed him and understood how sorry he was.
That day I felt a sense of history, and reflected about how things, good and bad, are passed from one generation to the next. We share your faith in God. Like you, we are each tenaciously following our dreams. But on that occasion, a baton of compassion that I received from you, was passed on to my son.
Today, Peter is a young man married to lovely Shelley. Although you've been gone from us for a few years, I'm sure you know they have a darling little girl named Katie Malone. I notice the calmness, patience and pride he has with her, and can imagine one day he may say to her, "What happened, honey?" as the baton is passed again.
Thank you, Dad.
How to Stay
Married and
Love It!
by
Nancy Landrum
