Sometimes I drive like my father: smooth yet efficient, elegant yet slightly aggressive, ready to take advantage of better pathways. Dad drove with confidence, secure in his reflexes, his command of the vehicle, and his geographic acuity.  

Sometimes I drive like my mother, with a frenetic energy, on high alert for danger, scattered.  Mom was the best conversationalist in the car if you felt like talking. She laughed at the right moments and gave an indignant “Oh for goodness sake!” as you told an outrageous story. 

While driving to a meeting or social event Dad’s mind was likely thinking ahead to what he wanted to say upon arrival. His comedic timing was so good and his stories, whether short or long-form, were polished in a way that you knew there was planning involved. 

Dad was expert at giving directions, a human GPS for anyone in need. I remember sitting in our cozy kitchen on Allentown Road, preparing to receive his instructions before driving somewhere unfamiliar. The overture to Dad’s directions was always “Well, you can’t get there from here.” He delivered the line in such an earnest tone that it never stopped being funny to me. 

Next came the drawing of maps on scraps of paper. Dad was in his element as he held forth. There were musings about the nuances of different routes and more drawing of the options. You could do this, or you could do that, or here is another possibility. “It’s up to you” he would say, though when pressed he would tell you what he would likely do. 

During a college break, I sat at the kitchen table with Mom and Dad as he drew a map for my upcoming trip to western Pennsylvania. I was going to my friend’s wedding over the New Year’s holiday.  I was to play piano or lead hymns or something like that at the wedding, and I couldn’t wait to be there. But then a blizzard emerged in the forecast, along with gentle words from both parents to prepare me. “You might not be able to get there.” I was insistent that I had to get there and that I would be careful, I would be safe. Finally my friend called and said, “Bev, you can’t get here. It’s ok. We’re going ahead, with a small group of family present.” I recall my parents’ quiet relief, and then my own as we settled into the pleasure of more time together, secure and warm while the snow swirled outside.

When Mom drove me to my weekly piano lessons in Quakertown she put aside her natural instincts for chatter so that I could silently study my scores, drilling intricate passages on my lap that I didn’t practice at home. I can still feel her glancing at me briefly from the side as she drove, with a slightly concerned look, perhaps wondering if they as parents were doing enough to nurture this unexpected affinity I had for the piano. I was never ready for those lessons, and she knew I needed to focus. I worry I could be sullen back then, but I like to think we talked more after the lesson with all that anxious tension released.

Legend has it that one time Mom sat in the passenger’s seat as her sister Alice drove them to visit my grandma in Lancaster. While Alice drove, Mom held the toll ticket in her hand as they talked nonstop. When they arrived at the toll booth Mom looked down at her hands and realized that during their animated discourse she had torn the ticket into many little pieces. 

It’s possible I have the wrong sister in this story. Maybe she was with Emma, or it was all three of them. Perhaps Mom was driving and it was Alice or Emma who tore up the ticket. With these three sisters the story can work in multiple ways. 

If Helen Longenecker’s mode in the car was conversation, Dad was more likely to be quiet as he drove. He and I often rode together in silence. We learned to be ok together without noise. 

Dad liked to catch people off guard with off-beat statements or questions. He varied his repertoire to keep these unique Sam Lapp lines fresh and unexpected.  A favorite: “Are you a thinker or a stinker?” He himself was a thinker with an inner world that became less mysterious as he aged. “When did Dad become an oversharer?” my brothers and I sometimes wondered.

If my younger brother David or I ever got lost while driving, we felt no need to burden Dad with it. Why make him shake his head, perplexed about how anyone could do what we did? Once when returning to my parents’ home from an evening in Philadelphia, my spouse Dale and I somehow missed the turnpike exit to Lansdale. As we continued on to the next exit it took discipline to not let frustration about wasted miles and lost time lead to recrimination. I declared, “Dad does not need to know about this. It would drive him crazy. We are not telling him.”  And we never did. 

My older brother Tony, however, had an unwavering need to confess to Dad if he ever got lost or had another mishap while driving. He needed to find some sort of absolution through Dad’s incredulous reaction. 

One time in her 50s my Mom was driving home from her job in Harleysville and didn’t fully stop at a stop sign at a quiet intersection. She was quickly pulled over by a police officer, who gave her a warning and urged her to be more careful. The very next day Mom did the exact same thing on her way home from work, and the exact same police officer pulled her over. As she lowered her window and looked him over, she said, “Officer, we need to stop meeting like this.” 

These days I can’t think of this story without also seeing the white privilege part of it.  Mom surely knew she was getting a ticket this time (and she did), but she also felt safe making a sassy comment to a police officer. 

I remember us three children sitting in the back seat as we drove home from get-togethers with the Longeneckers in Lancaster or Middletown, PA. Dad was expertly driving, following his instincts, never getting lost. I can hear Mom happily talking, filled with satisfaction from being with her siblings and their families. I can hear Dad remarking on a fascinating nephew or remarkable niece. I don’t remember what Tony, who was constantly reading, was doing without any easy light. Maybe there was a flashlight, or arguments about using the car light. Nor do I remember how David spent that time. No doubt he wanted his older siblings to interact with him, and we likely were not obliging, to my regret now. 

On those late night drives I leaned my head against the door, softly improvising words and melodies into the window glass. I thought it was my private moment, but surely the rest of the family heard me. No one ever told me to stop, at least not that I can recall. I wonder what my parents thought of the creations they heard coming from the back seat. 

My brothers reminded me of a feature when Dad drove us home from the Longenecker farm in Middletown. Dad reliably sped over a notable bump on Fulling Mill Road with just the right timing to give his kids the perfect thrill. That bump is now smoothed over, another marker of change. 

In summer 2021 I drove with Dad and Tony from Goshen, Indiana to Lansdale, Pennsylvania. We were in Dad’s last car, a 2014 Buick LaCrosse, and he wanted me and Tony to do most of the driving. He regularly offered suggestions, especially about when we should shift lanes. His tone was gentle, but we knew his teacherly voice well. Tony and I fell into tacit agreement that when you have a wise guide, you may as well listen. I think if Dave had been with us on that drive he would have teased Dad more, telling him to stop being so damn directive. Dad would have enjoyed this and responded that it’s not his fault his kids don’t know how to drive right. There would be more banter, and lots of laughter. 

About three months before Dad died, we had a discussion about whether it was safe for him to continue driving. He told me and my brothers that we needed to keep in mind his superior driving skills, the fact that even though he was very sick, his reactions and instincts were still better than the average person on the road. Dad was so serious as he said this, but it could be hard to tell when he said things in that tone. Was he trying to get a reaction from us? We playfully noted his incredible ego when it came to his driving, but also validated his point. The mood stayed solemn and the matter unresolved, though Dad may have thought he won the argument. Even so, we managed to keep the car keys away from him going forward. The three of us later agreed that even though our strong Dad was now so frail and vulnerable, he was still likely to be a better driver than many at their full capacity. 

I am driving that same Buick these days. Sometimes I drive like Dad, competitive about shaving off seconds here and there through strategic efficiencies, and focused on where I am going next and what I will say when I get there. If Dale is in the passenger seat he is sometimes alarmed at my aggressiveness. Dale grew up on a farm in central Kansas, where driving was usually a break from hard work. Drives were to be relished and unrushed so there was adequate time to check out the neighbor’s fields and see what you could see as you moseyed by their homes. Dale typically doesn’t care about being early, or late. Whenever I pull the “Pittsburgh Left” at an intersection (It’s so efficient! It helps everyone be more timely!) Dale turns pale and notes that in Kansas, this would be seen as the height of rudeness. 

During a recent trip to Kansas I was at an intersection in downtown Newton, with an opportunity for the Pittsburgh left. I was alone, but thought of Dale, and resisted the impulse. Dad would have both understood the temptation and approved of my decision. “Remember who you are,” he liked to call out as we left the house as teenagers and young adults. “Remember where you are” is also good advice.

Sometimes I drive like Mom, intensely focused while at the same time my mind runs in multiple directions. Like my mother I can be a delight to be in conversation with while driving. One time I traveled with my cousin Marcia on yet another road trip from Indiana to Pennsylvania. Marcia is the daughter of Alice from the torn toll ticket story. We talked without ceasing and got lost at least once on a route that is almost entirely one interstate highway. At the end of the full day’s drive home, as Marcia pulled her car into my driveway, I said, “It can’t be over already – we need more time for the topics we didn’t cover!” 

I don’t know if I mostly drive like my mother or my father. I suppose I drive like my unique self, yet influenced in so many ways by each of them.

How I miss these gems, these giants in our lives. They helped us consider and accept that we may not always be able to get there from here. And yet they gave us confidence that most of the time, we can.