In his later years my father, Jack, morphed into the worst driver on Florida’s West Coast. Driving a beat-up blue Ford Pinto, he cruised around St. Petersburg to his various haunts, paying little attention to other cars and drivers, remaining lost in a world of his own.
With my mother, Goggie, having moved on to more ethereal places than All States Mobile Park, there was no one to navigate beside him. Not that his driving went totally unnoticed. “I saw your father while I was driving home from work,” my husband told me one evening. “He was running a red light at about 40 miles an hour.”