This is a wonderful piece by Michael Gartner, editor of newspapers 
large and small and president of NBC News. In 1997, he won the 
Pulitzer Prize for editorial writing. It is well worth reading, and a 
few good chuckles are guaranteed. 

My father never drove a car. Well, that's not quite right. I should 
say I never saw him drive a car. 

He quit driving in 1927, when he was 25 years old, and the last car he 
drove was a 1926 Whippet. 

'In those days,' he told me when he was in his 90s, 'to drive a car 
you had to do things with your hands, and do things with your feet, 
and look every which way, and I decided you could walk through life 
and enjoy it or drive through life and miss it.' 

At which point my mother, a sometimes salty Irishwoman, chimed in: 
'Oh, bull—-!' she said. 'He hit a horse.' 

'Well,' my father said, 'there was that , too.' 

So my brother and I grew up in a household without a car. The 
neighbors all had cars – the Kollingses next door had a green 1941 
Dodge, the VanLaninghams across the street a gray 1936 Plymouth, the 
Hopsons two doors down a black 1941 Ford – but we had none. 

My father, a newspaperman in Des Moines, would take the streetcar to 
work and, often as not, walk the 3 miles home. If he took the 
streetcar home, my mother and brother and I would walk the three 
blocks to the streetcar stop, meet him and walk home together. 

My brother, David, was born in 1935, and I was born in 1938, and 
sometimes, at dinner, we'd ask how come all the neighbors had cars but 
we had none. 'No one in the family drives,' my mother would explain, 
and that was that. 

But, sometimes, my father would say, 'But as soon as one of you boys 
turns 16, we'll get one.' It was as if he wasn't sure which one of us 
would turn 16 first. 

But, sure enough , my brother turned 16 before I did, so in 1951 my 
parents bought a used 1950 Chevrolet from a friend who ran the parts 
department at a Chevy dealership downtown. 

It was a four-door, white model, stick shift, fender skirts, loaded 
with everything, and, since my parents didn't drive, it more or less 
became my brother's car. 

Having a car but not being able to drive didn't bother my father, but 
it didn't make sense to my mother. 

So in 1952, when she was 43 years old, she asked a friend to teach her 
to drive. She learned in a nearby cemetery, the place where I learned 
to drive the following year and where, a generation later, I took my 
two sons to practice driving. The cemetery probably was my father's 
idea. 'Who can your mother hurt in the cemetery?' I remember him 
saying more than once. 

For the next 45 years or so, until she was 90, my mothe r was the 
driver in the family. Neither she nor my father had any sense of 
direction, but he loaded up on maps – though they seldom left the 
city limits – and appointed himself navigator. It seemed to work. 

Still, they both continued to walk a lot. My mother was a devout 
Catholic, and my father an equally devout agnostic, an arrangement 
that didn't seem to bother either of them through their 75 years of 
marriage. 

(Yes, 75 years, and they were deeply in love the entire time.) 

He retired when he was 70, and nearly every morning for the next 20 
years or so, he would walk with her the mile to St. Augustin's Church. 
She would walk down and sit in the front pew, and he would wait in the 
back until he saw which of the parish's two priests was on duty that 
morning. If it was the pastor, my father then would go out and take a 
2-mile walk, meeting my mother at the end of the service and walking 
her home. 

If it was the assistant pastor, he'd take just a 1-mile walk and then 
head back to the church. He called the priests 'Father Fast' and 
'Father Slow.' 

After he retired, my father almost always accompanied my mother 
whenever she drove anywhere, even if he had no reason to go along. If 
she were going to the beauty parlor, he'd sit in the car and read, or 
go take a stroll or, if it was summer, have her keep the engine 
running so he could listen to the Cubs game on the radio. In the 
evening, then, when I'd stop by, he'd explain: 'The Cubs lost again. 
The millionaire on second base made a bad throw to the millionaire on 
first base, so the multimillionaire on third base scored.' 

If she were going to the grocery store, he would go along to carry the 
bags out – and to make sure she loaded up on ice cream. As I said, he 
was always the navigator, and once, when he was 95 and she was 88 and 
still driving, he said to me, 'Do you want to know the secret of a 
long life?' 

'I guess so,' I said, knowing it probably would be something bizarre. 

'No left turns,' he said. 

'What?' I asked. 

'No left turns,' he repeated. 'Several years ago, your mother and I 
read an article that said most accidents that old people are in happen 
when they turn left in front of oncoming traffic. 

As you get older, your eyesight worsens, and you can lose your depth 
perception, it said. So your mother and I decided never again to make 
a left turn.' 

'What?' I said again. 

'No left turns,' he said. 'Think about it. Three rig hts are the same 
as a left, and that's a lot safer. So we always make three rights.' 

'You're kidding!' I said, and I turned to my mother for support 'No,' 
she said, 'your father is right. We make three rights. It works.' But 
then she added: 'Except when your father loses count.' 

I was driving at the time, and I almost drove off the road as I 
started laughing. 

'Loses count?' I asked. 

'Yes,' my father admitted, 'that sometimes happens. But it's not a 
problem. You just make seven rights, and you're okay again.' 

I couldn't resist. 'Do you ever go for 11?' I asked. 

'No,' he said ' If we miss it at seven, we just come home and call it 
a bad day. Besides, nothing in life is so important it can't be put 
off another day or another week.' 

My mother was never in an accident, but one evening she handed me her 
car keys and said she had decided to quit driving. That was in 1999, 
when she was 90. 

She lived four more years, until 2003. My father died the next year, at 102. 

They both died in the bungalow they had moved into in 1937 and bought 
a few years later for $3,000. (Sixty years later, my brother and I 
paid $8,000 to have a shower put in the tiny bathroom – the house had 
never had one. My father would have died then and there if he knew the 
shower cost nearly three times what he paid for the house.) 

He continued to walk daily – he had me get him a treadmill when he 
was 101 because he was afraid he'd fall on the icy sidewalks but 
wanted to keep exercising – and he was of sound mind and sound body 
until the moment he died. 

One September afternoon in 2004, he and my son went with me when I had 
to give a talk in a neighboring town, and it was clear to all three of 
us that he was wearing out, though we had the usual wide-ranging 
conversation about politics and newspapers and things in the news. 

A few weeks earlier, he had told my son, 'You know, Mike, the first 
hundred years are a lot easier than the second hundred.' At one point 
in our drive that Saturday, he said, 'You know, I'm probably not going 
to live much longer.' 

'You're probably right,' I said. 

'Why would you say that?' He countered, somewhat irritated. 

'Because you're 102 years old,' I said. 

'Yes,' he said, 'you're right.' He stayed in bed all the next day. 

That night, I suggested to my son and daughter that we sit up with him 
through the night. 

He appreciated it, he said, though at one point, apparently seeing us 
look gloomy, he said: 

'I would like to make an announcement. No one in this room is dead yet' 

An hour or so later, he spoke his last words: 

'I want you to know,' he said, clearly and lucidly, 'that I am in no 
pain. I am very comfortable. And I have had as happy a life as anyone 
on this earth could ever have.' 

A short time later, he died. 

I miss him a lot, and I think about him a lot. I've wondered now and 
th en how it was that my family and I were so lucky that he lived so 
long. 

I can't figure out if it was because he walked through life, Or 
because he quit taking left turns. ' 

Life is too short to wake up with regrets. So love the people who 
treat you right. Forget about those who don't. Believe everything 
happens for a reason. If you get a chance, take it. If it changes your 
life, let it. Nobody said life would be easy, they just promised it 
would most likely be worth it.'