Rite of Passage

I realized the other day that 33 years have passed since I got my first driver's license and first car. That rite-of-passage at age 16 is something everyone goes through -- the lessons from dad, the driver's ed course, the first car, and that fabulous shiny little card that allows you to drive off ALONE and see the world.

My father was under the impression that if you started out learning to drive a huge truck with a camper and a standard transmission, then every thing after that would be a breeze. I remember clearly the first time I climbed behind the wheel of his 1972 goldenrod Chevy pick-up with 3-in-the-tree shift. The intricate footwork of letting up on the clutch while pressing down on the accelerator was mind-boggling! After practice-driving down countless gravel back roads, I was ready to head uptown with Dad to park in front of the Elsie post office. Apparently, you have to leave your foot on the clutch while simultaneously depressing the brake as you turn off the ignition or else the truck will lurch forward and jump over the curb while the locals watch and laugh. Not that I would know...

The lessons with Dad ended up fine, and I signed up for the official driver's ed course with Coach O'Donnell. He was also our high-school business teacher, the coach of the Ovid-Elsie High School Varsity football team, and my long-time school bus driver. Coach was fearless and also expected everyone else to be. An example of this (and to outline the non-litigious world of the mid-1960's): one day, the engine of our big yellow school bus kept stalling if the bus came to a complete stop. Coach was driving and decided to just roll up to the designated drive-ways, open the bus doors while coasting and yell to the kids waiting: "Just run and jump onto the bus"! It was great fun, and no one slipped.

He was just as laid-back when it came to Driver's Ed., and encouraged his students to "take it up to 80 on the highway" (even though the law had just changed to a maximum of 55). He bestowed upon me a passing grade, I got that shiny little card, and now it was time to bargain with my parents for my own car.

The deal was, if I got a job then I would get a car. I wanted something sleek, something dark and something fast, like all the other seniors at my high school. They all had 1977 Monte Carlos and shiny Ford pick-up trucks. After I secured a job, my dad came home with what at first appeared to be my nightmare car: a 1968 robin's egg blue/white Rambler sedan -- With plaid seats! And automatic transmission! And a hand choke! It took me about 2 seconds to fall in love with this quirky grandma car and we quickly became fast friends. And I never told my father that those plaid front seats folded back into a perfect 90 degree angle, making a bed-like formation with the back seat.

In the 33 subsequent years, there have been no accidents and not a single speeding ticket, so Dad and Coach must've done something right. The cars I've owned haven't quite lived up to that first '68 Rambler, but they got me through about a zillion miles of highway and back road driving. And in one of those great life-circles that happen to us all, I now drive a pick-up truck.