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The Spokesman-Review Newspaper
Spokane, Washington  Est. May 19, 1883

Beep of a horn can get the blood pumping

Gloria Warnick The Spokesman-Review

Did your heart ever skip a beat or do flip-flops because you sat a microsecond too long at a stoplight and the person behind you honked their horn? I had that happen today as I was waiting for the light to change on Highway 95 in Hayden. After I pulled my trembling hand off my pounding chest I somehow managed to get my car to move forward. OK, I was putting on my Pretty Baby lipstick and not really paying attention, but I was heading for a job interview after a quick drive-through at the post office.

Besides, this is Idaho and it is against the motor vehicle code to honk a car’s horn. Horns are ornaments that pique children’s curiosity and are only to be used for self-defense or to aid aggressive driving when visiting California or New York. It must have been one of those impetuous Californians who just moved here. Wait – I moved here from California nine years ago. Better watch what I’m saying. And I moved here with my husband and family because we wanted to enjoy a slower-paced lifestyle without people honking horns and speeding through yellow lights, or pushing you from behind because you are going too slow, or just being obnoxious.

We were rather enjoying the lifestyle, too, and then about two or three years ago it happened – the number of transplanted Californians in North Idaho reached critical mass, and overnight it seemed people around here started driving like Californians.

After my first cardiac event of the day, I drive to the post office with the latest amendment to my tax return. If the truth were known, it was probably the tax return sitting on the seat beside me that got the adrenalin flowing and caused the excited response to the horn. Nothing like a close encounter, or any encounter for that matter, with the Internal Revenue Service, to set one on edge.

The bright sunshine warms me despite the 65-degree air blowing in my face from the air conditioner. As I turn into the post office, my heart finally slows to its normal pace. I wonder if putting on lipstick is really all that important. I could have done that before going into the building for my job interview. Dropping the envelope in the mailbox I think to myself “There, I hope I never hear from you again.”

Again, I find myself waiting for the light to change on Highway 95. My eyes dart quickly from the signal light to the rear-view mirror and back to the light. I’m not going to miss this light. I can’t take another honking horn. The red light changes to green and I move forward, breathing a sigh of relief.

The short drive down the highway ends quickly as I turn onto the street taking me to my job interview. Pulling into the parking lot I find a secluded parking spot away from the main entrance. Touching up my lipstick I look into the rear-view mirror and cringe, waiting for a horn to sound. Relax, I tell myself. You need to be calm and collected for your interview.

I sit nervously in the reception area of a large corporation, waiting for my interview. My last child, Michael, graduates from high school next week and I’ll be free. I can get out of the house and work and have money to do some things with my husband that we have waited for years to do … travel, entertainment, fun in the sun, exotic places rarely visited by man or woman. Oh yes, but first we need to finish paying off the house, the cars, the graduation gifts, wedding gowns, receptions and cleaning up a little debris left in the wake of raising three children.

“Gloria, please come in.” It might as well have been a horn. My nerves are shot again as I follow the human resources director into the conference room. Her reassuring voice calms my fluttering heart. She actually likes me. She was impressed with what she saw on my résumé.

“In spite of the fact that you came here from California, I like what I see and I am impressed with your qualifications,” she said. “If you are available, we would like to have you start in two weeks.”

Walking to my car I reach my open hands skyward. “Yes!” I shout. Climbing into the car I sit soaking up the warmth from the sun drenched seat. My mind races back some 16 years when we would drive by our friends’ home on Georgia Street in Vallejo, Calif. My husband would honk the horn in the pattern of the old saying Form-U-La-Nine-and … Sham-Poo. Every time our 2-year-old would shout “Stop that!” It was a hoot. We all loved driving by the Judd’s just to hear his reaction to the horn.

Arriving home and walking into the house I see our son standing by the kitchen counter. I give him a big hug.

“Michael, I miss you already and you’re not even gone. Remember, when you leave home, don’t honk your horn.”

“What,” he asks. “Are you nuts? I hate horns.”