I’m one of the very many that belong to a baby-boom Vintage. In my Childhood, the man sat at the controls. Papa determined the Route of the family ship, and had the helm in Hand, mom ordered and turned Daddy’s rudder with charm and diplomacy in the desired direction.
have my mother come true, that the captain was, that he was forgetful. Because that meant that they now take the rudder in Hand and decisions had to cases. However, they fought back with a tenacity and toughness that surprised me. As it threatened to be dangerous, I felt called me to take the rudder in the Hand. Because in traffic, my father was no more. No Problem, I thought, as I now know, very naive: mom has a driver’s license.
My mother made the driver’s license in the 1960s, shortly after her wedding to my father when she could and went out to drink alcohol. The blood alcohol limit were of no interest to someone, they had also been first introduced in 1953, and 1.5 per Mille man was, of course, still roadworthy. In the economic miracle of Germany was celebrated much: those Who work hard, want to eat good food and drink. Women drank little or not at all, many of them began Smoking as a sign of emancipation.
“As discussed in”
Later, my mother had a small private car. The Limousine drove dad, and whenever the two were traveling together, he sat at the wheel. This was essential as the dumplings, which were served at the pig roast. As the years passed, good years. With the beginning of eighty dad’s faded memory. The more forgetful he became, the more my mother mutated to Navi: watch out, there’s a Bicycle driver. Now on the left! Warning, a traffic light. Red. Red! Stop!!! Assisted Driving.
“I can’t forbid it,” cried my mother.
“As discussed,” I said. “You take him the key.”
Easy? The chief, under which it served for more than fifty years? Since my mother was the wrong person to contact. It belonged to my tasks, daddy talk to the car. In order to ensure a relaxed mood, I fell with the door into the house, but with poppy crumb cake. After the coffee I asked casually: “dad, do you think that you’re now driving to old to drive?”
He looked at me as if I’d asked him if he could imagine a sex-change operation.
“no.”
Then he sealed up his face, and I had to admit to myself that he was, in a sense, my boss.
My mother dared to Todesmut border of the courage of a push. “Because you’re gotten to be a bit slow.”
“I wasn’t driving, the car is driving,” replied my father.
“a bad look”, don’t let my mother loose. What you had experienced Terrible as a co-driver that you dared to contradict?
“I’ve got a pair of glasses.”
“And all. The Reactions To It. The Senses.“
“I see and hear very well.” Dad opened the newspaper, the conversation was over, mom on the verge of a nervous breakdown. What dad didn’t see but, behind the newspaper.
months, if not years of his life he spent with the newspaper in front of the face. We all read from the way his hands held the paper, whether it was unloading or tension. Today the newspaper is part of activities to its main. Tirelessly, he starts from the front, it brand is always up to date for him.
