3:26 a.m. - Tuesday, Jan. 21, 2003
Driving in the Mirror
On Februrary the 5th, I�ll have another anniversary of being shot in Vietnam. It�s another one of those little unspoken days that pass during this time of year for me.
This time, for the first time, I am going to try not to let it rule me. I�m going to keep trying to look through the windshield.
See, a thought came to me a few months ago. I think it was even before my surgery. I was sitting in a funk for some reason, maybe no reason. Maybe I was trying to make up a reason, At any rate, I had one of those little flashes of insight that come �way too infrequently.
�I need to quit driving in the mirror.�
The very first time I was allowed to drive my school�s driver�s education car, I was given the wheel and directed to drive in the far right lane of a not overly busy four-lane street in Salt Lake City, Utah. It was fantastic! There I was, with the fragile lives of the three students in the back seat as well as that of my instructor up front in my capable fifteen and a half year old hands.
As I crept along at thirty-five miles an hour, I noticed a spot on the windshield. A yellow jacket had met his demise with a splat some days before and left behind a crusty, yellow residue on the glass. It was the kind of thing that didn�t wipe off easily when it was time to wash the car. In fact, I could see that it had survived a washing already. The streaks from it showed clearly when the sun hit the window just so. I wondered if the wipers would reach it, and if it would come off if it ever again rained in that arid, dusty place. Even though the car had been cleaned the afternoon before, I could see the dust building up on the windshield already. There was a fine layer of dust, and the streaks left over from cleaning the glass with a damp rag. And then of course, there were dozens of tiny splatters; the leftovers of gnats the size of mosquitoes that flew in swarms whenever the sun was low and there wasn�t any breeze, and then I noticed that they made patterns, almost like when you look at the night sky and��
The car seemed almost to tip up on it�s two front wheels as it slowed suddenly to a practical stop. I was already pressing harder on the accelerator, laboring the engine, trying to get more speed when I realized my instructor was yelling something at the same time he was pressing with all his strength on the extra brake pedal mounted n the floor on his side.
�Stop� STOP!!! Let up on the gas!!�
Oh�. He was talking to me.
I took my foot off the gas and stabbed the clutch. I was looking at his face as it transformed cheeks to forehead from ashen to red. I wondered if he were ill.
�Can you see where you�re going?�, he asked.
�Uh,,,,, yeah�, I lied.
�Well, look ahead of you�
I looked through the windshield for the first time in maybe a mile or more, to realize that I had been heading straight for a construction barricade. Right in front of the car was not only a barricade with a big yellow and red sign, but a flagman, still shaking his head and staring at me as he edged his way back to the place I had just run him away from. And beyond the barricade and flagman was a huge gaping hole in the pavement.
That�s the day I learned to drive a car. It�s the moment I realized that I had to look through the glass, not at it. And at the same time, I learned that I had to keep my eye and mind looking forward to the places I was going; not the place I was at. I�m only fortunate I was able to learn that lesson without badly hurting someone� or worse.
It�s just a shame I didn�t learn the rest of the lesson held by that day so long ago.
Life is a road trip.
We start it in the latest model of the human body at mile zero and we drive through all the scenes and localities of our existence until we abandon that body, either broken or worn out at the end of our time on the highway.
The thing is, no one really knows how to drive. And no one really knows where the trip will end. And along the way, there are distractions that can make us forget where we�re driving to. They can absorb us into some unseeing state as our lives careen without guidance into disaster.
Since I was a child in combat, I�ve driven my highway in an unusual way. I�ve forgotten the windshield again and focused on the rear-view mirror. I�ve seldom seen in any serious way where I�ve been going; only where I�ve been. And I�m here to tell you it�s really hard to see where you�re going by looking at where you�ve been.
Someone smarter than me said that there are only three time zones: past, present and future.
He said that the past is fixed and unmovable. We�re powerless to change it. I think that likewise, we�re powerless in the present. I am where I am and what I am at this moment. I was put here by every minute and every event in my past. But I can influence the future. If� I�ll look through the windshield and truly see first where I�m going and second, where I WANT to go, then I can try to move some levers, pedals and wheels to take me in that direction.
Step one is to stop looking so much in the rear view mirror.
So this year, I�ll stop for a moment to reflect on the events of 35 years ago. But instead of grieving it, re-experiencing the pain and terror of laying helplessly in the mud, writhing in agony while a battle rages all around, I think I�ll try to honor the moment in some way, very briefly, and then get my eyes back on the road ahead.
There are still a few miles to go.
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