Driving Lessons

My grandfather always drove a pickup with standard transmission and a stick shift. He was one of those old farmers who drove real slow and drifted onto the wrong side of the road while he checked out the crops. He didn't drive much faster on the highway, but he did stay on his side of the pavement. 

Since his pickup had four gears, he used all of them even though he seldom drove more than 30 mph.  Also, he had large feet and was in the habit of resting his size 13's on the clutch pedal. He burned out a clutch on the average of once a year.

He and my dad rented a pasture to graze their cattle. It was a picturesque spot with a creek running through it. His in-laws, my great-grandparents, lived in a modest house on the property.  It was a lovely spot for a picnic or wiener roast.

I was twelve years old on one of the times everyone in the family had gathered there. He took me for a ride in the pasture where he aimlessly drove in circles and figure eights. I knew we weren't counting cattle because they had all moseyed off to another section of grass. He went through the gear sequence a couple of times without ever topping 10 mph. 

With no warning, he took the pickup out of gear, coasted to a stop, and got out. 

"Okay. When you can change gears without making a screeching noise bring it back to the house."  He turned and walked off toward the house with his long legs eating up the ground while I sat in stunned silence.

Wait. Come back. You were giving me a driving lesson? All sorts of uncharitable thoughts whirled through my mind as I contemplated running after him demanding to know why he hadn't mentioned that I was being schooled or that there would be a pop quiz. Instead, I reluctantly slid across the bench seat and adjusted it forward until I could reach the pedals.

I had been driving the car ever since I got tall enough to see over the steering wheel at age ten, but this was a different situation. The car drove itself while I steered and gave it some gas.  Driving the pickup involved an intricate ballet of using two feet to manipulate the brake, clutch, and gas. One hand finessed the stick shift into the proper gear while the other stayed on the steering wheel. 

I already had a pretty good idea that I didn't want to shift from a forward gear into reverse. But how was I supposed to find the gears? Fortunately, the shifting pattern was printed on the knob of the stick. Gritting my teeth and hoping I was shifting into low, I moved the lever up and to the left, gave it some gas and eased out on the clutch pedal. The pickup lurched a little but didn't die on the spot or let out any audible complaints. 

I was a natural at this driving stuff. Before long I was running through the gears although I knew perfectly well from comments my dad had made that one shouldn't use the higher gears at low speeds. 

HA!  Take that, Old Man. Joyfully, I steered toward the gate and eased out onto the dirt road. Everyone was looking at me a few minutes later when I turned into the driveway. I was feeling pretty cocky by then. I was running out of driveway when it occurred to me I didn't know how to make the pickup stop, at least not gracefully. I put my foot on the brake and it died. 

Oh, well. At least I didn't run into my great-grandparents ancient 1940's sedan. I got out of the pickup and sat down at the bonfire. Grandpa didn't say a word to me about my driving, and I didn't say anything to him either.

Years later, sitting around with my cousins, reminiscing about the grandparents, I related this story. My two oldest boy cousins perked up and said he had pulled an identical stunt on them when they were about the same age.