Just Drive the Damn Car

a bit of humour, memoir and a life lesson from my gramma

Hoover Dam in 1980

It’s a nerve-wracking thing, getting behind the wheel of a car for the first time—unfamiliar vehicle, unfamiliar surroundings—and worse yet, right at the entrance to one of the world’s largest man-made dams. Hoover Dam. Yes, folks, my gramma made me take the wheel—for the very first time— on the Hoover Dam.

I was almost sixteen, spending the summer with her at her home in Arizona’s White Mountains. She loved being an outdoorswoman and could hunt and fish with the bravest of men, but she also loved cards, casinos, and the occasional well-dressed binge of gambling. One of her favourite destinations? Las Vegas. I had never been, and she thought it was the perfect gramma-granddaughter coming-of-age adventure. Friends, it was. It was also the first time I had alcohol (Creme de Menthe Grasshoppers at Caesar’s Palace), and absolutely the first time I saw topless showgirls. That’s a whole other essay, as is the night I befriended Paul Revere and the Raiders. Yes, that band. She drew the line at allowing me to go to that party—apparently they thought me to be much older than I was and she was not amused. Back to the point: we were headed to Vegas, and she decided I would be the one driving us there.

Let’s take a moment to appreciate the sheer absurdity of this.

The Hoover Dam was the first man-made structure to outweigh the Great Pyramid of Giza. It contains enough concrete to pave a sixteen-foot wide, eight-inch thick strip all the way from San Francisco to New York City. It’s been officially rated as one of America’s Seven Modern Civil Engineering Wonders. It borders Arizona and Nevada, restrains the entire Colorado River, and gave us Lake Mead. It is 726 feet tall. Seven. Hundred. And. Twenty-six. One thousand two hundred and forty-four feet long. And when you're driving five miles per hour? It feels like it goes on forever.

One hundred and fourteen people died building the dam. The first was a man named J.G. Tierney. The last was his son. He died thirteen years to the day after his father. That’s the kind of fact that makes you stare into space for a moment and say “Nope. I’m not going there.”

As I said, this dam is REALLY high. And I have an aversion to heights. Like, full-blown vertigo. It’s not rational. It’s not manageable. It’s a tumbling-forward, stomach-in-my-throat, pinball-in-my-eustachian-tubes, cold-sweat-on-the-back-of-my-neck situation. Niagara Falls is only 173 feet high and I still can’t look over the edge. So... building a highway on top of a 726-foot dam holding back millions of tons of water? Whose idea was that? Because yes, US Route 93 runs right across the top. The same route we took from Gramma’s house to Vegas. The same route I took for my first-ever driving lesson.

I loved my gramma. I really did. Still do and miss her all the time. But... my... God.

She drove a baby blue Buick with Texas plates that read PRR-426. It had a CB radio, and we used it. My gramma and I took long road trips all the time as I grew up, and usually with my brother along. She liked staying in touch with truckers. She said they looked out for her. And you know what? They did. Her handle was Texas Kitty 426, and I was PURR Jr. I used to talk to the truckers, too. Sometimes we’d stop and have coffee and eggs with them at truck stops. (Side note: I may be a coffee snob now, but to this day, nothing beats truck stop coffee, bacon, and toast.) Most of those men were real gentlemen, and Gramma was a tough broad. I never felt unsafe. She carried a pistol and knew how to use it. She also had a sixth sense for shady characters.

Almost sixteen-year-old me in our hotel room in Vegas, 1980.

My gram’s caption on the back.

I digress. Back to the dam.

She pulled over at the entrance, got out, opened my door, and wedged all five-foot-two of her round little self into the front seat so I had no choice but to scoot over behind the massive blue steering wheel. And then she slammed the door shut.

“Okay, Petunia. Let’s go.”

“But Gram... I don’t like this bridge so much.”

“It’s not a bridge, it’s a dam. You’ll be fine. Pull that handle down to ‘D’ and put your foot on the gas. I’m right here.”

“I can’t do it, Gram.”

“Kateri René. Just drive the damn car.”

And so I did. Five miles per hour. Cars lined up behind us, growing by the minute. I hugged the center line like it was a lifeline. Couldn’t look left, couldn’t look right, could only stare straight ahead like I was guiding a rocket through a needle’s eye. I was terrified.

“Did you know this dam is 726 feet high?” she said, casually pushing her black, rhinestoned cat-eyes back to the right spot on her nose. “Amazing.”

I wanted to cry. That tingly, effervescent cracking feeling in the back of your throat when you’re way past nervous and unable to swallow? Yeah. I think they heard mine all the way in New York.

But I made it. I skittered across like a cat through a room full of rocking chairs.

Now, my gramma wasn’t reckless. She could’ve taken the wheel anytime. She knew I wouldn’t go faster than a snail on a sedative. She also knew no one was allowed to pass us on the dam, so they’d just have to slow down and enjoy the scenic view. But in my mind, she believed in me—completely, fearlessly. And somehow, that belief got me across.

I trusted her. And that day, I learned to trust myself.

I’m still afraid of heights, but I can drive across anything. I’ve crossed big bridges through Buffalo into Canada into Michigan many times now. I go the speed limit. I look straight ahead. My stomach still ends up in my throat, but I always think of her.

And I’ve found, over the years, her words have applied to all kinds of moments. Like that sneaky imposter syndrome I keep sinking into as I write my first mainstream non-fiction book. She would have none of that. I can hear her so clearly, even now.

Kateri René.
Just drive the damn car.

My gramma Ilene at our kitchen table, late 70s, younger than I am right now. The photo is a bit damaged.