I drive around the same skimpy corner every day. The width is compromised by the placement of a two hundred year old stone house that juts into the road to avoid falling into the Pennypack Creek on the other side. I feel for the predicament of the house, really I do. But the way cars veer around the bend is scary, especially considering the fact that the house obscures even a hint of what is coming. People seem to operate on the assumption that they are the only ones traveling this stretch of Fettersmill Road today, or at least they are the only ones in a hurry.  Or maybe they just have great insurance.

 

I almost hit my own father there, thirty five years ago. He was in one car and I was careening in my white '65 Mustang. I cannot blame my cavalier driving on the rousing cd I was listening to, since cds were not invented yet, and I don't think the radio even worked. He told me later that the passenger he was riding with let loose with a few expletives about the other driver, when Dad admitted that it was his own freshly licensed daughter.

 

As if these conditions were not enough to spice up my commute, the top of the hill offers new challenges. It is steep, has limited visibility, and on a day like today is slick with rain. I drive a stick most mornings, and it is dicey getting the car to go forward before gravity and the wet pavement conspire to send me backwards. If the person behind me is only inches from my bumper, I sweat. Until recently, when a stoplight took up command of the intersection, the person who lives at the top told me that they heard screeching brakes and crunching metal every couple of weeks. One time a drunk driver sailed across the road at midnight, totaling both of their cars. 

 

It is not as if I am a full blown altruist when I get behind the wheel. Just yesterday I honked at someone stuck in the intersection, not because they needed a gentle reminder that they were blocking traffic, but because I was miffed. The twins were surprised. 

 

"Was that you, Mom?" their innocent voices wafted from the back seat. 

 

I have witnessed similar traffic patterns at our house. I am barreling along with my own agenda, mindful of little else than where I am headed, and then John shows up with his own plans. There are times when our separate paths work just fine, like when he is in his office a mile away. But there are other moments when our intentions intersect, or crash. 

For the first ten years of our marriage we fought every Sunday morning. Every one. One would think we had more intelligence than that. Thank you if that thought crossed your mind. But no, his drive to Preach a Great Sermon collided with my objective to Dress and Feed Small Children before church with enough regularity that I think our kids came to expect it. 

 

I have considered making a sign to put on the inside of my windshield. 

"Where you want to go is at least as important as where I want to go."