RULE FOLLOWERS AND THE RED SCARE OF CORONAMANIA

My father is 95 years old. He still drives. During the day, though not every day. Not far. And not fast. He doesn’t text or talk on the phone when he’s operating his car. Nor does he drive drunk or high. Given his lack of distraction and his sobriety, he’s probably a safer driver than are countless others.

Dad was raised in a strict family in which his father was said to have meted out belt-aided spankings. Plus, as Dad often reminds us, he was “in the service,” i.e., the Army, for three years, stationed in Louisiana between World War II and the Korean Wars, in which, respectively, his older and one of his younger brothers fought. I’ve previously written about his third, and youngest, brother who was killed at 22 while flying in a spy plane over Soviet Armenia during a 1958 Cold War incident.

When my mother broke her hip nine years ago, Mom and Dad had to move out of their house into a single-floor apartment in an adjacent town. At that time, he was visibly, understandably beleaguered by all of the disruption.

I said, “Dad, let’s break this down. What things are bothering you most and how can I help you with these?”

He began with, “My license still has my house address on it and we haven’t lived there for the past month. I can’t get to the DMV to change it because I’m busy taking care of your mother.”

“Yes, so?”

“If I get pulled over, I’ll be in trouble.”

I asked him how long ago he was last pulled over. He couldn’t remember. Then I said, “Dad, this isn’t a big deal. Tens of millions of drivers don’t even have insurance or licenses. I know some of them. And how will the police even know it’s not the right address? You still own the house and it’s not far away.”

He couldn't believe that people disobeyed government rules. Given his upbringing, his time in the military and/or because it’s just born into him, my father has always been a rule follower. So was my mother. It seemed like a generational trait.