The Coral Gables Times

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Car Pools Continued from page 22

disappear entirely and simply become part of the car. In this state, anyone with ears can learn many astounding facts. When my charges graduated from nursery school and went on to the grades, I learned a lot. For instance, as we passed a cross erected for a sunrise service, a five-year-old assured me, "That's the place where Jesus was, so that's why we have Christmas." And the comments on social life were a revelation. I remember the first day I heard Ginny and Susie discussing boys, "I just say damn and punch them." "It's not nice to say damn." AND THEN there was Gary's comment on dancing school: "I'm glad girls wear those white gloves. At least that way we don't have to touch them." Nothing if not candid! "My Mommy's going to have a baby," another rider reported, "but it's a secret and Daddy is mad. He said he didn't know how he was going to feed another mouth, but Mommy just laughed and said he should of thought of that before." One of the first things I learned as a car-pool pilot was the difference between boys and girls. In the way they act while they're on wheels, I mean. For one thing, boys jounce and jostle more than girls. And they are more likely to introduce fauna into the family car. I mean fauna like snakes and lizards. To this day, I am nervous whenever a snake is loose in my car. Then there is the matter of noise levels. A noisy passenger is a better risk than a quiet one. The angelic, silent one is either poking holes in the upholstery or pinching the ones who are making the noise. On the whole, it is better to pool girls than boys. When girls are quiet, they are day dreaming and making wishes. About boys. When boys are silent, they are either plotting a major revolt or handily taking the car apart. I have known a seven-year-old boy who, working without tools, "fixed" the back seat of a $3,000 automobile in such a way that it took factory-trained mechanics hours to fix it back again. While he worked, it may be added, the boy wore a baseball mitt. Which is why my definition of car pooling is "the legal destruction of a not-so-friendly neighbor's new car." Dear little souls. Boys want you to pass every car on the road. So do girls. Both boys and girls instantly recognize the make and model of every car. It is absolutely uncanny how they manage to come by this information. "Cadillac" seems to be the first word they learn after "Mommy" and "Daddy." And they are all snobs. It galls them terribly to have to ride in a car more than two years old. Since my car was four when I was in my prime as a mechanized baby sitter, I got a lot of poor mouth. "Why don't you get a new car?" they said. "All the other kids have new cars in their pools." But the kids began to age, too. By the time they were teen-agers, my car was much admired as a hot rod. By the time I retired from the pool, they regarded it with some awe as a "genuine antique." They had helped to make it one. THERE SEEM to be built-in, unavoidable hazards to the fine art of car pooling. Like the time six cars show up to transport one Little League team. Enough transportation for the San Francisco Giants. Or the helium-headed dame who remembers to "take" but forgets to "pick up." I once had the happiness of transporting six seven-year-olds after a birthday party because no one showed up for them. No strain until I got to the last one. This sturdy little American did not know where he lived. He had been car pooled so often, he thought we all knew. I took him to my house, finally, and called his mother. (He knew his name, which was a break for me.) "You've got your nerve," Mother snapped when I told her her castaway was with me. "I've been just about frantic not knowing where he was. I've never ..." She

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