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me.
"Turn the key and start the car," Daddy ordered. "Then back out of the driveway!" That request sounded like a simple thing to do, but the reality was anything but simple. There were rose bushes just inside our fence, on both sides of our driveway, and every time I tried to back the car out onto the road, I'd hit one of the bushes. After repeatedly running over Daddy's roses, he decided to have mercy on me (and the rose bushes), and told me to get out of the car. He then backed the car out of the driveway and into the street. "Get in," Daddy snapped, "I don't want to miss the football game which starts in an hour." By the time my hour long trip into driving hell was finished, I was in tears, Daddy was cussing, and my heart felt like it was going to come up through my throat. Mercifully, the session was over, and I retreated to the safety of my bedroom, where I cried for the next two hours. I made up my mind right then never to allow Daddy to teach me to drive.

Over the next few months, I avoided Daddy's persistent pressure for me to continue my driving lessons. At first I made excuses about having too much homework, not feeling well, etc. But finally, I ran out of excuses and had to tell him the truth. "I'm not going to learn to drive," I declared. "And I don't want to talk about this anymore!" Daddy was really upset, but he finally quit pestering me about the issue, and we never talked about it again.

In California, driver's education was required in high school. In my senior year, the school counselor signed me up for driver's training, even though I begged her not to make me go through the class. After 3 days of classroom training, I found myself behind the wheel of the student training car. By that time, my phobia was so bad that my shaking was very visible. After trying twice to pull the car out onto the road, I ended up crying uncontrollably, forcing the instructor to put another student behind the wheel. Of course, my humiliation was made worse by having two of my classmates in the car along with our instructor. I got a D grade in the driver's education class and that was only because my instructor took pity on me. He passed me, even though I didn't pass the driving part of the exam, because I refused to take the exam.
Several years went by and I got married to a career Navy man. Bob took over the duties of driving us places so I didn't have to deal with my phobia during the first two years of our marriage. One day Bob came home with distressing news;

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