The Wave
When I lived in Alaska, I learned quickly that one of the go-to rules of driving was the wave to the sign holder as you followed the pilot car past them into the construction zone–particularly if you were the first or second car. Nothing more than a raised hand was needed, but after sitting for 15 minutes just feet away from that individual, it was an important social custom to follow.
One time, when I was the first car in line at a construction zone on the way in to Anchorage, I had my cousin Luke in the passenger seat with me. The pilot car showed up, pulled off to the side to let the trail of vehicles following him go by, and then made a U-turn to lead us into the breach.
I drove a stick shift. This particular construction zone was in the mountains, and we were stopped on a slight incline. I needed some concentration–and both hands and feet–to get my little Saturn going in the trail of the pilot car.
The car moved forward, and with my left hand I managed the steering wheel and with my right hand I shifted from first to second. And as the seconds passed I realized that I would not have a hand available for the obligatory wave at the proper time. I began to think about trying to split my attention between navigating the frost-heave riddled pavement before me and attempting to catch the sign holder’s eye for a chin raise. It would be less than satisfactory, but all I could do. Then, Luke’s hand reached across my line of sight and proffered a wave to the woman leaning against the “SLOW” sign. She waved back, smiling, and I was able to drive on, guiltless of breaking societal norms.
“Thanks!” I exclaimed.
“No problem,” said Luke. “You handle the driving, I’ll handle the PR.”
***
I moved to Charlotte, North Carolina just a few months ago. And I’ve found myself a route to work that winds along a small road and then through a neighborhood–avoiding the traffic at major intersections.
In my wanderings along these side roads, I’ve learned quickly that Charlotte has its own obligatory wave. Retired men walk their dogs along the edges of the quieter roads. And as I go by, they raise a hand in acknowledgement. I get smiles of affirmation when I raise a hand in return. I get stiff, miffed expressions when I don’t.
I’ve started raising my hand. Without a cousin the car, I have to handle my own PR.
Just yesterday I passed an eight or nine-year-old boy walking his dog along the side of the road. I approached slowly, uncertain of the etiquette with one so young.
The larval form seems to have picked up the societal norms from the mature of the species. As I swung ’round the corner, my hands both engaged on the steering wheel, I saw a small hand in my peripheral vision, raising in the standard wave typical of the older men.
I freed one hand and let the other guide the wheel back to it’s straightened position. I lifted my hand in return.
After all, one should always keep up the PR.
