It’s July, which means it’s hotter than Georgia asphalt, and it’s almost time for me to drive my grandparents back to their home in Florida.  I have two weeks to mentally prepare myself for a 10 or 11 hour driving trip that would take the normal person 8 hours.  And I also need to find a decent set of earplugs.  Or ripe bananas.

Frankly, I really don’t mind driving my grandparents between their Georgia and Florida homes despite the long trip of bathroom breaks and Cracker Barrel meals.  My grandmother, Nanny, turns 86 this week, and my grandfather, Dukester, is 92.  Obviously, they won’t be around much longer, and I’d like to spend as much time with them as I can.  And apparently there’s no better way to spend time together than in an enclosed car where you have no escape.

However, if it were up to my grandfather, he would still be doing the long distance driving himself.  He’s a very proud man, that one.  And desperately clinging to his last bit of independence.  He tells me (often) that he doesn’t want anyone to think that he’s old and feeble and can’t drive.  He says, “I’ve driven from here to Florida and back by myself many-a-times.  I did it then, and I can do it now.  When people start doin’ things for you is when you start gettin’ old.”  Fairly profound, but I must say that if I make it to the ripe old age of 92 and someone wants to drive me somewhere?  I’ll bake them a cobbler of blackberries and love and top it with ice cream.  But only if that someone can first wheel me into the kitchen and prop me up at the stove.

That being said, it always takes some coercing to get my grandfather to agree to let me drive them between states.  It’s never a given.  I have to start finessing things over about a month or two in advance so that the Dukester can get used to the idea that he’ll be the passenger—not the driver.  It’s not easy convincing a man who’s fought in two wars and can still do deep knee bends that he’s not capable of driving.   

And to top it off, this time I had to ask my grandparents to back out their return date by five days due to some work-related issues on my part.  This in turn caused a frenzied panic about what would happen to their mail.  They had already requested that it be forwarded to their Florida home on a specific date, and God forbid that the mail sits in the box for more than a few days.  Hmm, maybe I should buy them a mailbox like mine…

Anyhow, after I broke the news, the panic began:

• Dukester:  Lulu, I think that we’ll just drive back ourselves.  We’ve already set up the mail to be forwarded on a specific date.
• Me:  Can’t you get a neighbor to pick it up for you?  It’s only for five days.
• Nanny:  Honey, it’s all just junk mail.  Helen can pick it up!
• Dukester:  Well, I don’t want to have to bother Helen.
• Nanny:  Helen don’t care, honey.  Our mailbox is right beside hers.
• Dukester:  Well, I don’t know.  We’ve already put our forwarding card in at our post office in Florida.
• Me:  Dukester, if you want, I can change your address on the internet.  All that I have to do is access the Web site for the USPS and change your forwarding date.  It happens instantly. <well, almost>
• Dukester:  <momentarily stares at me like I’m speaking Chinese> You know that when you have your mail forwarded, the post office sends a card to every single post office in the country to let them know that your address has changed.  Lulu, honey, there’s not enough time to change our forwarding address.
• Me:  <blank stare>
• Nanny:  <shouting> We don’t get no mail, honey!  It’s all blasted junk!
• Dukester:  Baby, maybe we should call our post office in Florida to let them know what we’re doing.
• Nanny:  Shhttt!  Honey, we’ll just drive ourselves back then!  I don’t know why you’re so worried about the mail. 

And this is the kind of thing that I have to go through each and every time.  But the result is always the same—I’ll be driving them back to Florida in a few weeks.  And if anything happens to their mail, they might never leave Florida again.