“I’ll Drive”
The following Chapel talk was given by
Nancy Iannicelli in October 2019.
M
y father, Raymond Iannicelli, came to be known as “Big Ray” because
he was a big man — over six feet tall, strong, and athletic. Yet, he was
also a rather quiet man. His voice was rarely the one heard above all the
others in a room full of spirited conversations.
There were, however, those instances when my father would render speechless the
loudest and noisiest of groups by uttering two words. Oh, yes. I have witnessed grown
people acting like preschoolers caught misbehaving. These adults became silent. Their eyes
darted around the room. Their heads jerked quickly right and left. All this, the result of two
simple words – just two – voiced by my father. You might be curious as to what those words
– those two simple words – were. Well, I’ll tell you. They were “I’ll drive.” Yes, if someone
announced an evening for a dinner party, a plan to attend a ball game, or a weekend date
to go to the country, “Big Ray” was the first to offer to drive. Generosity was a hallmark
characteristic of his; so was his unique skill – or complete lack thereof – as a driver. No
other words spoken by anyone I have ever known could create such a state of anxiety
in me as my father’s concise sentence of “I’ll drive.”
The most memorable of hundreds of automotive expeditions were those involving
the Hawthorne Circle, a former rotary near the village of Hawthorne in Westchester
County. If Dante had added another circle of hell to the nine of The Inferno,
it would have been the Hawthorne Circle as driven by my father. For most
motorists, navigating the circle was simple. The driver entered the rotary,
and as his desired exit grew near, he eased his car to the right and exited.
For reasons I could never fathom, my father, who had superb peripheral
vision and the reflexes of a trained athlete, never, ever solved the
mysterious puzzle of the Hawthorne Circle.
“Big Ray” and his car would bolt into the rotary and charge
directly into the middle lane of moving vehicles. We, his children,
would soon spot our desired exit and say in unison, “Dad!
Look! There’s the exit,” hoping that surely this time would
be the magic time. This time, we would glide swiftly and
smoothly into the exit itself. This time, Dad would get it
right. But no, that was not to be. With our heads craned
to the right, we would look longingly at our exit as we
passed it. We would sigh and watch in despair as it
quickly receded from our view. And so, round the
circle we would go.
This particular pattern would repeat itself several
times. First, the chorus of “Dad! Look! There’s
the exit.” Next, the approach of the exit. Then,
the turning of the heads followed quickly by the
anguished faces. Last, the sighs of resignation as
we continued onward in the middle lane. Round
and round and round the rotary we would go.
At some point, my father would take an exit –
always the wrong exit – and find his meandering
way to our destination, never asking directions
and remarking that the major roads in New York
State were originally old American Indian trails.
I often pictured the Iroquois fleeing in fear and
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