Prudish Saab story

I’m hesitant to share this one, but…

My beloved mother was a prude. There’s really no other way to say it. No minced oaths were allowed aloud in her presence, nor any talk that merely hinted at being corrupt. I cannot recall ever having my mouth washed out with soap, but her withering gaze was as effective as a Dove bar for the words “fart,” “suck,” “heck,” or “darn.” My older brother once expressed his awe at how long she’d had to wait between rest stops. He’d foolishly blurted out, “Wow, what a bladder!” I don’t know what his punishment was, but his epic blunder was fodder for sibling teasing for quite some time afterward. 

Mum did not allow for “oh my goodness” or “oh my,” even. I found that out when I was in high school. Our typical mornings found us running late, and I drove her to where she taught before taking myself to the opposite end of town for my classes. True to form, the second-hand car we were driving one particular day gave us a hassle before we even left the house. 

The driver’s door wouldn’t latch, so I grabbed a length of baling twine from the barn, looped it around the inside handle, and asked Mum to hang onto it while I drove. She graded papers and made lesson plans as we made the 15-mile drive to town. All was well until we came to the intersection of Griffin Road and Ohio Street, where the road dips, and on the right turn, Mum lost her grip on the twine, allowing my door to swing wide open. 

There was no danger to me nor to anyone else, and I laughed as I tried to regain control of the wayward door while guiding the 1972 Saab up Ohio Street. Meanwhile, all Mum could say was, “Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh!” I only laughed harder at my prudish mother’s refusal to say anything more severe than that. I swerved to the left, which brought the door back to me, and she grabbed the twine from my hand, white-knuckling her grip from there to her school. 

For the next few days that the Saab door refused to latch, we figured out that if she buckled the twine in with her seatbelt, we wouldn’t have to worry about the Griffin-to-Ohio turn anymore, and she wouldn’t be the butt—I mean, backside—of my amusement.