ESSAY: Pat Lowery Collins was 14 when she got her driver’s license, so she could drive herself to acting jobs in Hollywood’s radio studios. Many years – and many cars – later, she’s decided it’s time to hang up her keys.
I was just 14-years-old when the Department of Motor Vehicles of the state of California granted me a driver's license so that I could come and go to my acting jobs in Hollywood's radio studios. My intermittently star struck mother had launched me into the heyday of the radio industry as a child of 8 years old, but had recently found that chauffeuring me to rehearsals and performances had begun to interfere with her frequent trips out of town with my father.
For my part, I treasured all the family history connected to our cars. Seven years before this, the exotic Graham Paige had replaced our La Salle limousine, the only car I ever loved, which was rumored to have been owned by the movie star Adolf Menjou. It had glass partitions, jump seats, and a microphone, and proved to be perfect for a family of five on road trips to such places as the Petrified Forest, Death Valley and Crater Lake.
More than a decade later and after much soul-searching I've decided not to put my children through anything like that experience. I have also been witness to enough instances of reckless driving by aging individuals, or heard too many cautionary tales, to ignore the fact that it is a supreme act of selfishness to continue to drive when one is impaired in any way, physically or mentally. One aging driver I saw could barely shuffle into the liquor store from his parked car.
It is undeniably difficult, however, to depend upon others when one has functioned independently for so long. Though I have grown children, friends nearby who are more than willing to help me, and regional senior services, I can't escape the fact that this is just one more affront to my valued autonomy and another way in which my world is shrinking.