“Watch out grandma!” I yelled, as she mindlessly switched lanes, running another car off the road. The driver pulled up beside us and gave grandma the finger. She didn’t know what it meant and probably thought he was giving us a turn signal. Usually her dog, Butchie, sat in the passenger seat, and he had many bumps and bruises from hitting the dash board at high speeds.
Grandma was dangerous.
One evening we were having dinner. The phone rang, and my father answered it:
“Bobby– Help! I’ve hurt myself!” she screamed.
Dad said, “Ruth, is that you? Ruth? Are you OK?”
She screamed, “Bobby, come help me. I’m bleeding!”
Grandma lived right next door, but it was a good three hundred yards away. My dad ran over and followed a small trail of blood from the front door to grandma’s bedroom. She was lying on the floor. Butchie was by her side, obviously upset. She was calm, but she was in pain and quite relieved to see her son-in-law, Bobby.
She told us that she fell out of the car while driving down the lane, and the back tire had run over her leg. Her car was down in the field with the driver’s door wide open. She had dragged herself back to her telephone, maybe five hundred feet. This topped all accidents she had had to this point. Finally we were able to persuade her to stop driving.
She gave up her freedom for the safety of the public.