There was an article in the Chicago Tribune on Sunday about a driving instructor and a private driving school who's been teaching teenagers for over 20 years – and loves it. There's a waiting list for this guy. John Raffa is famous for his patience and his "Raffaisms" such as the following:
"Stay off the lines or you'll pay fines"
"Expose your rear end slowly, like a stripper" (when backing up)
"Make a full stop, or you'll talk to a cop"
"Slow down sooner, and you'll live to be a honeymooner"
"Look in the mirror more often and it'll keep you out of the coffin"
"Be patient so you won't be one."
Don't you love this guy?
The article made me think about my own experience learning to drive. I couldn't wait to get behind the wheel. My high school did not offer drivers' ed – so Dad had to teach me. Dad gave me my first few lessons behind the wheel of a dark green 1973 Ford Gran Tarino station wagon. Driving that monster was easy – all you had to do was take your foot off the brake and you were driving. We used to go to the parking lot behind the junior high school when it was empty. There were nice long stretches to drive and a stop sign at one end to practice stopping. There was a little island of grass at the other end, allowing for practice turning and using turning signals.
I vividly remember finally learning to gauge the speed of the car and being able to take my foot off the gas and then slowly applying the brake to eventually stop at the sign – not 20 feet before it, or with a screech of tires and whiplash just past it.
Mom took me for my driving test just after my birthday. For some reason, we were the only ones there. After I passed the written test, we waited for the fearless test administrator to call me for the driving test. I remember sitting there alone in the waiting area with Mom and seeing the officer come towards the room with a clipboard. He said, "Mary?" Mom and I did not even flinch.
"Mary? Is there a Mary here?"
Oh right! My name is Mary – not Kate. This was my first encounter with confusion over my own legal name versus the name I use. That confusion continues to this day.
I took the driving test – and failed. I neglected to signal when moving into and out of the parallel parking spot and I didn't know where the defogger was. I was using my grandfather's metallic pumpkin 1980-something Chevy Citation for the test and was not as familiar with the tiny car as I was with the two station wagons my family had owned while I was learning to drive.
I don't remember taking the second test – but I remember passing. Mom let me drive home and then let me drive up to school by myself to pick Rach up from basketball practice. I was alone in the car. I had a hard time taking one hand off the wheel in order to push the preprogrammed buttons on the AM radio. I remember bumping into Sr. Catherine in the hallway. She was my American history teacher. I jingled my keys for her. She rolled her eyes and told me to pray every time I got behind the wheel -- for the other drivers on the road.
Driving was bliss for me. It was freedom. Freedom from change in my pocket to call home for a ride, freedom from the 10-ride bus passes and countless transfers for the Cross County bus. I would run any errand that was needed. I begged for the station wagon every weekend. I was one of the oldest in my high school class, so my friends were depending on me for their freedom. Unfortunately, my family had only the station wagon, and I was one of four kids still at home who had rehearsals, practices, recitals, performances, games, and carpools.
The summer after I turned 16 I went to the Missouri Scholars Academy – a two-week program at University of Missouri for nerdy smart kids. I loved it – it's a whole other blog. Anyway, Dad came to pick me up at the end of the academy. When we pulled into the driveway at home, Aunt Phyllis' car was there. She had light blue 1981 Buick Skylark. I was surprised that the car had stickers on it. Aunt Phyllis' cars are always impeccably clean. The car was now bedecked with stickers from my high school, my sister Ann's college, and a great big "I love Webster Groves" sticker on the bumper.
Dad's next words were like winning the lottery to my ears. "Aunt Phyllis bought a new car." We had acquired her Skylark for "you girls" to use. Lucky for me, my older sister Ann was away at college and had not gotten her license yet. My younger sister Rach wouldn't be 16 until that next February – and then didn’t get her license for another few years. My sister Lucy was still in grade school. I felt like I was on The Price Is Right and Bob Barker just told me I won the car.
Aunt Phyllis had given Rach and me some money to buy a stereo that had FM and a cassette player. We started carpooling with the Furay girls to school – no more busses! I could drive to play practice and then take my friends over to Steak n' Shake for fries and shakes purchased with our pooled resources. The Skylark was ultimate freedom. I loved that car.
I remember Dad telling me once when I was fishing for an excuse to take the car out that I would eventually grow out of this excitement. That at some point in my life, driving would not be so much fun. I still think it is so much fun.
No comments:
Post a Comment