by Pamela Ashton

Created on: March 22, 2009

My father was in frail and failing health by the time I was old enough to learn to drive. My step-mother was a Southern belle, unaccustomed to raising children let alone providing driving lessons. There was an older brother and older sister, both too involved in their own lives to aid a pesky younger sister in a desperate bid for freedom from walking or relying on a rusty old bicycle. That left the boyfriend.

One hot sultry summer day he arrived in front of our rural Pennsylvania home. His powder blue Plymouth was always spotless, the pride and joy of its owner. Joe* was a senior at the high school where I was a junior. The school was an hour's ride on the crowded, noisy school bus, and twenty minutes by car. Joe always drove to school. I could barely contain my excitement as we pulled away from the house that day. We hadn't told our parents what we were up to. As far as they knew, we were going swimming at the local beach.

That was the truth. We just left out the tiny detail that Joe was planning to give me my first driving lesson on the way. Once well out of sight of the house Joe pulled over and ushered me into the driver seat. We spent some time going over the basics; making sure I could see in the mirrors, making sure I knew which pedal did what, and which position of the "stick" was what gear. Finally Joe was satisfied and allowed me to slip the car into gear.

The Pennsylvania farming region we lived in was criss-crossed with narrow dirt roads over the gently rolling hills. There was little if any traffic, and I shifted with ease, growing ever more confident. The day was perfect, being with Joe was perfect, and my driving was perfect. Until we came to the one lane bridge.

As I'd grown in confidence, I steadily gained speed. I wasn't prepared as we approached the narrow bridge, for a car to already be coming on to it from the other end. Joe panicked. He began yelling at me to "Slow down, stop!" His sudden anxiety rattled me and I went blank, not able to think what to do. I gripped the wheel tightly as we continued up the sloping road to the bridge. Joe was now yelling incoherently. I screamed in frustration and fear.

Joe reached over my right leg with his left to push his foot down on the brake pedal, but in doing so pushed my foot down harder on the accelerator as well. The car screeched and squealed with the conflicting actions. The driver of the approaching car realized something was wrong. He quickly reversed and backed off the bridge. Joe, still in full

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