Last week, I was unloading groceries in my driveway and a car passed by with a woman and a teenage girl inside. Even with the windows closed, I could tell the woman was saying, “Brakes! Brakes!” as the teenage girl winced and shrugged. Since I have lived through this both as the girl and the woman, I’ve decided to run an article I wrote over a decade ago. Happy motoring.
The following was written as a newspaper column in 1997
Years and years ago, before the advent of airbags, mandatory seat belt laws, and ecology groups banning exhaust emissions, I completed high school driver education. Back then, we were automatically assigned to a class in our sophomore year as part of the curriculum. The instructor was a guy named Rick, who also taught wood shop and coached the varsity baseball team. Looking back, I realize that Rick was in his early twenties and wasn’t even called Mister. He was just Rick.
The half of the year that we weren’t taking Driver Ed, we were assigned to Health, better known as Sex Education, which was taught by another 20-something known as Miss D. In retrospect, I find it both amusing and alarming that we were being instructed in two of the most dynamic skills we would ever possess by individuals barely older than we were.
Rick, in fact, seemed to have combined the two courses in his own mind. I recall feverishly attempting to parallel park while Rick was observing young female pedestrians crossing in front of our vehicle in skirts the size of postcards. At the time, I thought he was craning his neck to see if I cleared the bumper ahead of me. In reality, he was praying for one of them to drop something and bend over to retrieve it.
The years have passed, and now my Daughter has turned sixteen and received her learner’s permit. The demand for Driver Ed at her school far outweighs the available spots so it is left to the families to locate and secure a place in an independent driving program. The cost for this comes to exactly the amount I paid for my first car, a seven-year-old 1963 Chevy Nova. Money well spent on both counts.
As we wait for her class to begin, Daughter is receiving professional one-on-one instruction from one of Rick’s stellar graduates. Recalling that Rick always stressed location, I chose a nearby upscale neighborhood a short distance from our community’s narrow streets and familiar joggers. Not driving by people you know eliminates the temptation to wave, an urge that can be overwhelming and hard to accomplish with both hands on the wheel. Also removed is the possibility of taking a chunk of lawn from the front yard of someone we might actually know.
Choosing a tony neighborhood to cruise around means wide streets with uninterrupted curb appeal. The late-model luxury cars are all safely parked in the garage, eliminating them as potential targets. And the chance of hitting a pedestrian is nil since no one ever comes out of their house. You never pass a jogger or see anyone shooting hoops. Apparently, they’re in a tax bracket that prohibits sweating. If not, then their absence from the streets may be more out of self-preservation than privilege. Perhaps they’ve spotted all the student drivers.
Daughter’s Featured Fotos prove it’s Happening All Around Us
underground jazz
reindeer revolution
cat fight
midway there