JOAN
Many of my mother's displays of stubbornness took place when she was behind the wheel of her car, a ’74 Chevy Monte Carlo, dark reddish-brown with a wide grille and long, curving fenders. She lived in a small community just off the northbound lanes of the Pacific Coast Highway, which parallels the ocean. To get to Santa Monica, where she went several times a week, she had to drive south for a few miles. She could have turned north onto the highway and gone the short distance to Sunset Boulevard, where there was a traffic light. But no, she insisted on waiting for a break in the oncoming traffic, speeding across two lanes, and wedging the car into the southbound flow.
A few times when I happened to be with her during that maneuver, I clutched the armrest and gritted my teeth. “Mom,” I’d say, “why don’t you just go to Sunset and turn around at the light? This is so dangerous.”
She’d tighten her lips and ignore me. As always, I was defenseless in the face of her tenacity.
Her home was a few miles from the Getty Museum, which had a collection of ancient artifacts and expansive gardens. You could reach the entrance from the highway, admission was free, and I thought it would be a perfect place for the two of us to spend an afternoon.
“No, I don’t think so. You wouldn’t like it,” she said each time I suggested a visit. I didn’t argue; I knew I’d lose. What did she have against the Getty Museum? I’ll never know, and I never got to see it.
From Having Her Way, Chapter 8
A few times when I happened to be with her during that maneuver, I clutched the armrest and gritted my teeth. “Mom,” I’d say, “why don’t you just go to Sunset and turn around at the light? This is so dangerous.”
She’d tighten her lips and ignore me. As always, I was defenseless in the face of her tenacity.
Her home was a few miles from the Getty Museum, which had a collection of ancient artifacts and expansive gardens. You could reach the entrance from the highway, admission was free, and I thought it would be a perfect place for the two of us to spend an afternoon.
“No, I don’t think so. You wouldn’t like it,” she said each time I suggested a visit. I didn’t argue; I knew I’d lose. What did she have against the Getty Museum? I’ll never know, and I never got to see it.
From Having Her Way, Chapter 8