My Driver's License: Dad Did What Driver's Ed. Could Not

I've recounted my walk through Driver's Ed. elsewhere, so I won't go through the agonies I faced as I never got out of first on my initial driving test (I didn't want to speed or make a mistake), but when Dad heard I'd failed the test, to say he hit the roof would be putting it mildly and when I told him how much it would cost for the extra training I needed, his answer anded with something about "over his ------ body!"

This is when Dad took me aside and said I'd be going to a much harder school of driving now, the Henry School of Driving (his name). I laughed only the way a 16-year-old (who knows everything, of course) laughed, but Dad meant what he said.

He became more like my Drill Sergeant than my Father and he told me that before my next test appointment, he'd have me driving. He did, too.

(One thing before we really get started is that you have to know that even though my Dad was a big man, he was a very gentle man with the Patience of Job, so this was totally out of character for him and it did take a lot out of him to do what he did!!)

His method of teaching was very simple: something called fear. I was afraid I'd let my Dad down and I was afraid of what he might do if I did -- Dad was 6-foot-1 and 220 with arms about size of tree limbs and I was a kid of about 5-foot-6 and 140, so you can see my trepidation. (I only saw Dad lose his temper once, and the object of his ire was, at last look, still bounding, although he may have stopped.)

So, the very June evening I failed my test, Dad came home early and began drilling me. First came, the proper way to enter and car and get set -- we practiced this until well after dark and by that time, I could open the door, slide in, adjust the mirrors and have the key in the ignition, all in under 30 seconds.

The next night he schooled me in the basics, starting and stopping, starting and stopping, starting and stopping (until I was ready to go running from the car to catch the first tramp steamer anywhere).

The next night it was the same thing again and again; and the next night it was the same with a twist, Dad told me to put my foot on the brake and put the car into Drive and move the car down to the Stop Sign and then, since ours was a very quiet neighborhood, he had me put my right arm on the seatback and backup to where I started and then he had me do it again, and again and again. By the end of this night, I was beginning to believe I might do it, or at least know how to drive 50 yards and back up.

We did this for a few nights until Dad slipped a new one in, the dreaded Y-Turn or three-point turn that takes you from one direction and lets you end up in the other. So, as Dad watched, I slipped behind the wheel; set up correctly; started it up and slipped it into Drive, thinking I was doing our usual exercise, but, no, there was m ore this time. Dad told me to pull into the middle of the street and cut the wheel to the left and pull slowly ahead until the front left wheel touched the left-hand curb, which I did it; then he told me to reverse the direction of the wheel, look over my shoulder and, if everything was clear to slowly swing back until the right rear wheel touched the opposite curb. So, sweating bullets, I did it; and then he told me to cut the wheel back to the left and proceed forward until the car was straight, but in the opposite direction. Again, I followed his instructions and, lo and behold, I'd done it, the perfect three-point turn.

As you might figure, by now, it was only the first of about a billion or more of them (well maybe that's an exaggeration, but it surely felt like it) and we practiced this move night after night as Dad gave up lucrative working time to help me out.

Soon he added a simple U-turn to my repertoire and finally, the momentous day came, we took it around the block; stopped, executed a Y-turn and a U-turn and then headed home. This became a nightly affair for several nights until he added the move everyone fears, parallel parking. Well, something must have rubbed off from the Old Man because all he had to do was tell me to start to swing the right rear toward the curb and about halfway through countersteer. I did this like a duck taking to water and then finished up his final instruction, "Okay straighten the wheel out and pull ahead!" This was something I did and when I looked up, there was the Old Man quietly smiling at me. He knew he had done it; taken his totally left-footed son and made him into a driver.

Our lessons continued for a few more nights when Dad asked: "So when's your driving test?" I hadn't scheduled it yet, but you can bet that I grabbed a ride to the local Registry of Motor Vehicles to get an application for the test, I actually took more than one, just in case. Next, I asked Dad for the fee, which he gave me and I picked up a bus ride the next day back to the Registry office and got me license test date.

Since Dad was now my instructor, he had to take me to the test, which he did (although he did cut the timing rather close). Next, we sat and waited and suddenly I heard my name and we walked outside with the examiner, Dad sitting in the rear seat, his arms crossed -- in other words his usual stoic look, and me at the wheel.

Well, I started up, signaled and pulled smoothly into traffic, stopped at the first sign, signaled my turn drove for a bit, stopped at the side, executed a Y-turn, drove back up the street and turned again, drove through downtown; found an open curb space and pulled ahead and I put the car into the space like my hand fits a glove.

I then pulled back into traffic and drove back to the exam office while the examiner was writing up my Junior Operator's License and, as I looked in the rearview, I saw three looks I'd never seen in my Dad before: the first was obvious, relief -- it looked like the weight of the world was off his shoulders; the second was happiness as a smile crossed his face, and the third was a smaller but wider smile of pride as he watched his son get his license (and he'd been the teacher).

I won't say Dad wasn't exactly calm during the test because I've never seen a man's legs trying to stop the car with an imaginary brake pedal as we went through traffic. I knew he did it and he knew that I knew, but you know something, it never came up, not once. You're the first people to know about so if you happen to see anyone I might know, keep this to yourself, Dad and I would appreciate it.