It’s a rite of passage in our country– learning how to drive.  From the time I first became a teenager, I lived for getting my permit at age 15 and my license at 16.  It was the longest wait of my life. 

All my childhood I loved playing with little toy cars– the cheap ones made out of five inches of molded plastic.  My neighbor Cathy and I would play for hours with them, making roads in the dirt with our hands until our hands were raw and caked with red dirt.  It only took one summer rain shower to  obliterate our little homemade town of highways, streets, and driveways, but we were always eager to get back out there the next day and make new ones. When I was playing cars, I was driving those cars in my mind.

The local “Dime Store” always had good deals on plastic model cars that boys could glue together and paint.  The most fun was glueing on “accessories” like headlights, bucket seats, and the tiny steering wheel.  My favorite part was applying the decals on the side of the car.  In those days we had to soak the decals in water and then somehow slide them off the paper and onto the plastic car. Mine usually featured bubbles and wrinkles. Model cars only fueled my desire to drive !

The very first Tuesday after my 15th birthday, I was first in line at the Clay County courthouse to take the written exam for my learners permit.  (In our small rural county, it only happened once a week.)  I had studied for months.  I knew the manual  backward and forward, and I passed with flying colors.  Once I had that learner’s permit in my hand, I darted out the door, across the courthouse square, and into my Dad’s Ashland Pharmacy where my mom was waiting.

“I passed!  I passed, Mom!  Let’s go!

“Let’s go,” meant “Time’s a’wastin’, Mom.  Where do you need to go?  For the next twelve months, I’ll be your permanent chauffeur.”

Of course, I already considered myself a perfect driver.  I had paid attention.  I had watched my parents drive, and had even been with my older brother, Mike, while he was learning.  I saw his mistakes, and KNEW I would never make the same ones he did.  I vividly remember my ten year-old self being the back seat of Dad’s car while Mike was learning to drive.  One Saturday morning Mike attempted a quick parallel parking exercise next to a brick wall.  Dad tried to give him pointers, but Mike was annoyed, confidently stating, “I know, Dad, I know….”  just before he scraped the entire right side of Dad’s car against the brick wall!  Mike was so aggravated at himself that he jerked-up the hand brake in anger and broke it off in his hand.  Dad was none too happy, but I was taking mental notes.  Even before I got my permit, I had figured out the angles and just knew I could parallel park with ease.  The incident had been an early driving lesson for me, at my brother’s expense.  

I hurried Mom out of the pharmacy helping her think of places she needed to go.  We drove to the curb market, to the church, and to Allen’s Sure-Save grocery store.  I made sure we went the long way to each of our destinations.  Our last stop was Grandma Nichols’ house to pick up my nine year-old sister, Donna, who had walked to Grandma’s after school.  Grandma boosted my confidence commenting on how professionally I had driven up her gravel driveway.  My head continued to swell.

On the way home from Grandma’s I did the unthinkable– at least in my Mom’s eyes.  I drove with one hand.  My right hand was on the steering wheel and my left elbow was out the window.  With the utmost confidence I honked and waved at Cathy as we glided down the big hill toward our driveway.  Teenage coolness was happening!

Oddly enough, I had NEVER noticed Mom or Dad applying the brakes as they turned into our driveway.  It appeared that they just made a right turn into the driveway without slowing down. Granted, I wasn’t going very fast– but I was going far too fast to take a sharp right turn.  Instinctively I tried to do just that. Mom assumed I was going to bypass our drive and go around the block one more time for fun, but instead I whipped the steering wheel sharply right.  Our big Buick missed the driveway altogether and angled into three boxwood bushes planted next to the drive.  I plowed through them like a ten ton bulldozer as my Mom screamed my name in terror.  When we finally stopped, the Buick was resting snuggly between two big pine trees in our front yard.

“Mark!  My Lord have mercy!  What were you thinking!”  Mom was in full-meltdown mode.  Donna’s eyes were as big as saucers.  It was a miracle that we hadn’t centered one of the many pine trees in the yard– head-on!  My profuse apologies did not prevent Mom from suspending my chauffeur status until I had learned some driving basics that were left out of the Alabama driver’s manual.  My sister and I talked about it recently, and  she remembered it all very well.  My blunder probably served as an early driving lesson for Donna,  just like Mike’s had done for me five years earlier.

Still, Mike had the last word on driving lessons for me.  A little over a year later, after I had earned my legitimate license, I was forced to learn another huge driving lesson.  At that time, Mike, a college student, was home from Auburn for the summer.  He owned a fine 1968 Pontiac GTO.  It was a sporty, four-in-the-floor muscle car that got all kinds of attention.  (Whether it’s true or not I don’t know,  but we always thought GTO stood for Gas, Tires, and Oil.)

I asked my brother if I could drive his GTO to run a short errand.  He was hesitant, but OK’d it– IF I would come straight back.  (I always loved driving a stick-shift.  Dad had made us learn how to drive a four speed straight shift before getting our license.  Thanks Dad.)

I did my quick errand, but took a little detour that ended up taking me over ten miles out of the way.  I was compelled to drive by Lydia’s house so she could see me driving the cool car, and by Walt’s house since he admired Mike’s GTO.

About a half-mile from my house the GTO conked-out on me.  It just stopped, cold.  I tried everything, but finally realized I had to call Mike for help.  It was before the days of cell phones so I had to borrow a phone at Irving Thompson’s house nearby.  Mike showed up a little while later with Rodney Saxon– a mechanic.  I was still sitting in the driver’s seat of the GTO when I heard Rodney say, “Mike, for some reason there’s no gas getting into the carburetor.  You’re not out of gas are you?”

“Mark,” he yelled from behind the raised hood of the car.  “You’re not out of gas, are you?”  I looked at the gas gauge.  My heart sank.  It was below empty.

With a confidence level of zero, I responded, “I’m not sure.”

“Mark!  What is the gas needle pointing to?”  Mike asked firmly.  I was so embarrassed to admit it.  All I could do was shut my eyes and lamely eek out the obvious:

“Well….it says…..E.” 

There was a moment of silence and then I heard Mike sincerely apologize to Rodney for the trouble we had caused.  Slowly Mike made his way to me with eyes glaring and his lips pursed tightly.  Then, pointing his finger directly  into my face he declared,

“Mark, you will never ask to drive this car again!  Do you understand?”

There are some driving lessons you’ll just never forget.

 

“When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I gave up childish ways.”    1 Corinthians 13:11

 

P.S.   Mike forgave me and eventually allowed me drive his GTO again– not often, but without holding it against me.  He also wishes he still had that GTO.  It’s worth big bucks now.