Stop Exclaiming and Watch the Road

I have always had an ear for the unusual ways people express themselves.

Yesterday, out of the clear blue, the clouds rolled back and I heard a phrase that delighted me.  

I was driving Liessa and our daughter Rachel to the hospital to see our son, who was having minor surgery.  I am at that stage of life where getting my children to drive with me feels like an accomplishment in itself.  

Rachel suggested a shortcut into the hospital that avoided traffic.  I was thrilled.  Apparently thrilled enough to drift slightly into another lane.  

That was when Rachel said, “Dad, stop exclaiming and watch the road.”  

She was not unkind.  She was not dramatic.  She was precise.  And she was right.   

Somewhere along the way, my joy in noticing briefly outran my responsibility for navigating.  I had confused commentary with control.  

It turns out both matter.  

The phrase stayed with me long after the car was parked.  It was funny because it was true.  And true because it was said in love.  

Some wisdom arrives without ceremony.  It simply asks you to pay attention. 

Rachel, You Drive, So I Am Free to Exclaim!

Written February 2026

When Rachel drives, I am free to collect material.  

That may be the real arrangement here.  

Our conversations widen.  I listen more closely.  I notice the rhythm of her voice.  Observations surface that would otherwise be lost to lane changes and turn signals.  

It occurs to me that this might be arriving sooner than I expected.  

The moment when my keys are not exactly taken from me, but gently outpaced by concern.  Not because I am incapable.  But because she is attentive.  

She drives.  I talk.  

She manages traffic and parking decisions.  I manage memory and meaning.  

I do not plan on stopping writing.  That much is settled.  

When she drives, humor is built in.  Commentary flows.  Conversations deepen.  

And yes, I suspect the day my keys disappear may come quicker than I once imagined.  

But if that day arrives, I already know where I will be sitting.  

In the passenger seat.  

Listening. 
Noticing. 
Exclaiming.  

Still writing.  

Because as long as someone else is driving, there will always be something worth saying. 

My Grandchildren Are Driving Now

Written February 2026

I’m noticing a pattern.  

My grandchildren no longer ask where I’m going.  They ask who is driving.  

The question comes gently, almost casually.  “Do you want me to drive?”  Sometimes it’s not even a question.  “I’m driving.”  

Five years ago, I was the one driving them.  To school.  To friends’ houses.  

Now, the drift has shifted.  

At first, I told myself this was just kindness.  And it is that.  Mostly.  

But then came Las Vegas.  

Rachel bought a car from my sister who lives there.  The car was for my granddaughter Bailey, who is in her senior year of college.  

Wanting to be helpful, I offered to drive it back.  

Bailey shut it down immediately.  

“No, Pops.  You’re not driving.”  

She explained that she was afraid the car would not arrive in the same condition in which it left Las Vegas.  

Not my safety. 
The car.  

As it turns out, there was no conspiracy.  Just logistics.  

Bailey was at college.  So her dad, Erik, flew to Las Vegas, picked up the car, and drove it back himself.  

Problem solved.  

And strangely enough, so was mine.  

This isn’t about losing the keys.  It’s about roles changing quietly, without ceremony, while love stays exactly where it’s always been.  

I may no longer be driving. 
But I am still very much riding along.  

And the passenger seat turns out to be an excellent place to observe, to exclaim, and to laugh. 

Postscript

“Authority has shifted quietly, lovingly, and without asking my permission.”

— Pops