Once upon a time, in a world before ride-sharing apps like Uber and Lyft, there was something called “carpooling.” For my younger readers, carpooling is a legal means of temporary vehicular imprisonment. Only kidding! But in Poughkeepsie, New York—and surely many other suburban locales during the 1980s—carpools were a godsend for busy parents who wanted to share the responsibilities of transporting their children from one activity to another. At almost every stage of my youth, there seemed to be an endless stream of chauffeuring required, whether it was for sports practices, religious school, or social outings.
Between my sister and me, there were only a few instances where we both needed to be at the same place at the same time. This was one reason why carpooling was such an invaluable option for parents during the “olden days.” But as I discovered, not all carpools were created equally. Which brings me to the life lesson I learned as a young adolescent: there is no such thing as a picture-perfect person or household. And carpools provided literal windows into the complicated social and family dynamics we all face.
Here’s my story…
Getting the green light
Let me start with a positive. Some of the parents who were the “designated carpool drivers” made the trips enjoyable. You may remember our neighbor across the street, Mrs. P. Mrs. P always had a funny story to share on our daily rides to high school in her trusty Volvo. Since the P’s also had pets, there were times that I wished I could live with them. Particularly when my sister annoyed me. But, then again, Mr. P, who was Swedish, often made unusually hearty breakfasts like salmon with pumpernickel bread that seemed better suited for dinner. As much as I adored the P’s, perhaps I was better off just sticking with my own family and our boring, cold cereal breakfasts.
Other parents had cool cars. Though, to be honest, an impractical car that didn’t seat at least five people was incredibly rare for the families in my parents’ circle. I’ll always remember how, once—and only once—my friend R’s father begrudgingly agreed to take us on one of our frequent trips to the mall in his Porsche. Based on her dad’s anxiety level as we climbed into his sports car, you could tell that it wouldn’t be a relaxing ride. I actually think R’s dad told us not to move, fearing we would mess up his car. Still, I didn’t care that I was scrunched in the back seat like an accordion. We were in a Porsche! Sadly, after R ignored her father one too many times about fiddling with the radio, after that, he would only drive us around in their monstrous Lincoln Continental. Being a carpool kid meant you were at the mercy of your driver.
I’ll shift gears here—pun intended—to tell you about the Po’s, another family in our carpooling circuit (I’ll obscure their real identity, but their last name also started with a P.) With three boys of varying ages, I didn’t fully appreciate such luxuries as using your inside voice, cleanliness, and smooth driving until the Po’s joined the carpooling group for Sunday School.
Pedal to the metal
I’ll start by telling you about the Po’s car. I’m not a snob (okay, maybe a little), but the Po’s had a ginormous station wagon with faux wood paneling. If their car were yellow and had a blinking stop sign attached to the side, it probably could’ve passed for a school bus. But what made the Po’s car so awful was that it was filthy. Sanitation did not appear to be a priority in their household. There was always food on the floor, be it crushed Goldfish crackers, a smattering of M&Ms, or other random snacks that may or may not have been consumed in that calendar year. Also, the seats were sticky. I hated touching anything because there seemed to be residue on every surface. Invariably, the seatbelts were always wedged in between the seats. Only the bravest souls would dare fish around to locate the missing buckle.
Oh, and I haven’t even told you about Mrs. Po’s driving.
To this day, I don’t know how Mrs. Po ever got her driver’s license. If I had to describe her driving style, the one word that comes to mind is “lurching.” I don’t even know if that is a real word. Basically, Mrs. Po would aggressively press the accelerator, causing the car to speed up, then inexplicably take her foot off the gas. The entire car ride was an endless loop of speeding up and then drastically slowing down. One could easily imagine getting whiplash if we had ridden in the car for a longer period of time. Such was the life of a carpool kid.
Wheels are coming off the bus
And if her dirty car and bad driving weren’t bad enough, Mrs. Po also had a very loud voice. I understand now that with multiple boys in a household, sometimes a woman has to work really hard to be heard. But it can be done. I know this thanks to Mrs. Po.
Mrs. Po’s preferred volumes were either loud or extremely loud. To accompany her vociferous tone, Mrs. Po had a thick Long Island accent. And whether they annoyed her on purpose or Mrs. Po just had a short temper, Mrs. Po’s children drove her nuts. Each time she yelled at her kids, it was nearly impossible not to laugh. Think of someone colorfully cursing out “Pawl,” “Jawn,” or “Jawj” every few minutes. (Though no, we didn’t carpool with The Beatles. Those aren’t her children’s real names.)
I suppose Mrs. Po bought that extra-large station wagon not so much for the legroom, but so her sons could sit as far away from her as possible—in the way-way back. That left Mrs. Po to have more pleasant conversations with us carpool kids. We were a captive audience, particularly due to the sticky seats.
Blow a gasket
But messy cars with bad drivers weren’t the only glimpses we had into family dynamics. We also learned about social hierarchies as carpool kids. Our neighbors from around the corner, the S’s, whose father was my no-nonsense, no sense of humor soccer coach when I was in elementary school, exemplified this point. The S’s had three kids: a much older daughter named P, whom we never saw and weren’t certain of her existence; S, their son, who was my sister’s age; and C, who was a year older than me. Perhaps S and C were overly sensitive due to their father’s challenging personality, but S, C, or sometimes both would invariably end up crying during one leg of a carpool ride. This included all matters big and small.
I’ll admit that S was usually the butt of the other carpool kids’ jokes. Perhaps I’ve blocked it out, but I don’t recall taking part in the teasing. It’s probably because, as one of the youngest riders, I was either smooshed up against the door or stuck in the middle “hump” seat with no seatbelt. It’s safe to say (or actually, “unsafe to say”) I was too busy hanging on for dear life. I should point out that car safety standards were much more relaxed during my childhood. Today, it’s a totally different story. So, buckle up!
Anyway, back to the story…sadly, my father once accidentally caused poor S to explode on one of our carpools. S was a fanatical Yankees fan. Unbeknownst to my dad, during the initial leg of the carpool, S had told us he was recording the Yankees/Red Sox game from that evening and would watch it once he got home. Despite having no access to any media, we all promised not to reveal the final score. On the way home, though, my dad inadvertently revealed that the Red Sox had won. S was so angry that my dad spoiled the game that he blew up at my poor father. We were all shocked by S’s outburst. But, as immature children sometimes react, the carpool kids simply laughed at S. We’d never seen S so furious before. Usually, he just burst into tears, but not that fateful day. S’s rage stunned us all.
After that, no one teased S as badly as they used to. I guess S finally had his revenge against the catty carpool kids.
Hitting the road
Carpooling has certainly given me some pretty colorful childhood memories. I learned a lot about people from our carpools, some good, but mostly not-so-good. When you’re literally stuck together in close quarters, it’s hard to hide from the sometimes-harsh truths of reality. I’m a little bit sad that my city-reared teenagers have missed out on being carpool kids.
They won’t bond with other children over a parent’s bad driving. They don’t have to duke it out over who gets to ride shotgun in the front passenger seat on the way to school. My kids, instead, complain about how late the subways are and how slow the buses run. Maybe there’s a benefit to grumbling about the Metropolitan Transit Authority rather than about family friends?
I’ll admit, I’ve often wondered what the other kids thought of us when my parents were the designated carpool drivers. What flaws of ours were revealed? Or did we seem like the perfect family? I can assure you, we weren’t. In fact, I’m fairly certain that S still hasn’t forgiven my father for revealing the winner of that Yankees/Red Sox game.
Do you recall any childhood memories that had a strong impact on you later in life? Please share your stories with me in the comments section.
