– Bill McGlashen
In my youth, they used to complain about “Sunday Drivers.”
These were people who spent their Sunday afternoons driving around looking at things.
I know this might seem a bit quaint to anyone under the age of 50, but it’s what we did.
Our social outlets were scant and TV programming – particularly on the weekend – was limited. Besides, gas was cheap.
That’s why the family piled into the car and just drove around looking at things like big buildings and construction sites. Gauging progress was a popular pastime in the 1950s.
Now if you were a kid, driving around in the back seat of the family Oldsmobile (ours was green) was not a great time.
You couldn’t even ask (chant/ complain/ whine) “Are we there yet?” because you weren’t really going anywhere, you were just taking up time.
And usually it was time spent in the irritating company of siblings, and mostly you spent that trying to avoid “touching” each other.
Yes, the tactile terrors.
Every time an elbow grazed someone’s rib, the infraction was announced to the adults in the front seat in a decibel level usually reserved for rattlesnake sightings.
“He! Touched! ME!”
If this three-word warning was repeated often enough, it always prompted the adult behind the wheel to issue the sternest of warnings: “Don’t make me stop this car!”
Now if the car was stopped, the offending party was often moved to the front seat and placed between the two adults like some scrawny defendant between two burly bailiffs.
Of course, when one is driving around gawking (or dealing with whiney children), one has a tendency to weave a bit on the highway, and thus the Sunday Driver image was born.
You know, I don’t believe we have Sunday Drivers any more. Gas costs too much and other weekend pursuits beckon.
Besides, these days I think we have to look out for Saturday Drivers.
Sunday Drivers might not have had a specific destination, but Saturday Drivers know exactly where they’re going.
And you are often in their way.
They ride your bumper, pass on either side (doesn’t seem to matter), cut you off and glare. Saturday Drivers, by my observation, tend to hit the highways about 10 a.m. and pretty much make a nuisance of themselves until 3 p.m. They like pickups (big ones). They like vans, and they like to talk on cellphones. And they will change lanes faster than the GOP changes front-runners.
If you’re out driving around Saturday, see if you don’t agree.
Don’t make me stop this car.