My first attempts at steering were clumsy. I’d get partway into the turn and forget to keep pressure on the lever that gave it the power to move. I looked just like that car on T.V. that keeps jumping forward and then stopping.
In no time I had mastered the eye-hand coordination necessary for smooth operation and people started having confidence in my ability to stop by getting in my way.
I was mumbling under my breath that what I needed was one of those old fashioned “ooga” horns that could be found on old Model Ts.
A moment later, I looked at the steering column and spied a button that said, “Press here if you want to scare people out of their shorts.” I did, expecting some kind of noise that would herald attention to clear the road or aisle whichever came first. I hoped for something you would find on an 18-wheeler.
All I got was a feeble “feep.” The sound was akin to something when you are blowing your nose after your mucous membranes had gone dry.
It sounded like something you would give to a vehicle that was on its last legs. “Feep!” I could make more noise rubbing two crickets together.
I tried it out on a group that has holding a coffeeklatsch in a center aisle. They didn’t even look up. Nobody respects the elderly anymore.
Still, I had a ball! No longer was I confined to the distance my legs could walk before I felt like collapsing. I could scoot from the meat display to the wine display and find out what was “on sale.” Then I could scoot back and pick out some meat for the main entrée and have a coordinated bottle of wine to match the choice. Compliments were sure to abound.