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 panic mode, grabbed the wheel and finally stopped the car, running us head first into the bridge's side rail.
We sat there a few breathless moments. The water rushed beneath us. Steam began to rise from the damaged radiator. From the other car the driver was coming to see if we were alright. Joe was the first of us to move. He opened the glove box with shaking hands, and searching around pulled out a pipe, a small tobacco pouch, and a lighter.
"I never knew you smoked," I said.
"I didn't, until now," Joe replied. "This is my dad's pipe. It's also his car."
It was an ignominious end to my driver education in Pennsylvania. Shift gears to Washington state a year later. A new boyfriend. A beautiful 1969 blue Camaro with white racing stripes. Dave* decided I was past the age when I should know how to drive. His mother was in her mid fifties and had never learned to drive. Dave didn't want me to be dependent on others all the time as she was. When I confessed to my previous failure in Pennsylvania, he just shrugged.
"That was then, this is now," he quipped. "Get in."
He held the driver door open for me. Reluctantly I slid in behind the wheel. I was shaking so badly I could barely turn the key and stalled out repeatedly before managing to get the clutch in sync to shift into first. There was a lot of traffic in this town just east of Seattle, but Dave knew his way around and found a less traveled route for my lesson. This was such a contrasting experience to that of my lesson with Joe.
Dave sat in the passenger seat, one foot propped carelessly against the dash. He'd mildly say, "Shift to third," or "Slow down a little," or "Check your mirror," but mostly seemed to be ignoring me. He whistled, looked out the window, and filed his nails. I was tense, expecting some challenge. It came, of course.
After turning off on a side road we came to a dead end. The challenge was to drive the car toward one side of the road, reverse and back as close to the other side as possible, then drive out and back up the sloping street. The slant to the street coupled with a deep ditch running along the side of the road and a high chain link fence beyond that did nothing to help me. Then seemingly coming out of nowhere, there was a new obstacle; a pair of horses and their riders coming down the lane.
Was it Nero who fiddled as Rome burned? Dave continued to calmly whistle and file his nails. I repeatedly stalled out rolling ever closer to the ditch and fence while keeping one eye on the approaching horses.
"Dave, I can't do it," I wailed.
"Yeah, you can." Dave inspected the edge of a nail and dragged the file over it. "Try again."
An eternity seemed to pass. I was so frightened that I would wreck the Camaro; it was Dave's pride and joy and brought back memories of Joe's dad's Plymouth. The difference was Dave believed in me. Dave's desire for me to succeed was more important to him than the car. Finally I managed to get turned around, get back up the hill, and somehow make it home again.
"Dave, thank you," I said. "I am truly amazed at how calm you remained through all that."
With a wry smile, Dave showed me his fingernails. "Maybe not so calm," he confessed, "but I knew you'd do it." His nails were filed nearly to the quick.
Thanks, Dave. Over the following weeks you not only helped me learn to drive but instilled in me a new sense of confidence, and taught me not to give up in the face of challenges.
*names have been altered.