Learning To Drive

When I was a boy in my early teens, Dad decided that the time had come for me to learn to drive. Early one morning, he took me with him to the pasture that bordered our large, shallow lagoon on the east side of the farm. The lake had been created by one of the hurricanes that chose to descend on the south coast of Texas in the early sixties. The rains had come down so hard and fast that surrounding tanks and ponds had "gone 'round," or overflowed, taking large numbers of bass, perch and catfish in the turbulent flood waters that formed the lake, stocking it with fish at the same time.

Now, hundreds of ducks chattered and beat their wings in protest as we pulled up near the shore. The banks of an earthen dam rose from the depths, forming an island some 200 yards out in the water. My friends and I had enjoyed numerous campouts on that small knot of land. We gigged frogs, caught fish and basked under the moonlight and glimmering night sky dusted with countless stars. The smell of frying fish and frog legs swimming in butter in cast iron skillets would fill the air. After gorging ourselves, we would lie on our backs and gaze into that infinite sparkling sky, counting shooting stars and dreaming our dreams as only boys can do.

This morning, Dad eased the battered old blue Ford pickup to a stop. He showed me first, second, third gears and reverse. I had observed him driving and had some notion of how things should work with the gears. He removed the keys and tossed them into my lap as he stepped out into the lush coastal Bermuda pasture that sparkled with fresh morning dew. Wishing me luck, he slammed the door and moved away toward home, leaving a wake of green footsteps in the dazzling blanket of golden sunlight reflecting off that field of dew.

Sliding over under the wheel, I heard him rumble, "Boy your age oughta know how to drive."

"When do I need to be home?" I asked.

"When you know how to drive!" he shouted over his receding shoulder.

"Yessir!" I called out in response.

I slid over under the steering wheel and gripped it with suddenly sweaty palms. What was that sequence of gears he had shown me a minute ago? I watched Dad gain some more distance before deciding it was time to get things rolling. Shoving the key into the ignition, I gave it a twist.

The engine coughed, the truck lurched forward and my head bounced soundly off the window behind the seat. I had forgotten about the clutch! I tried to fill my mind with the things I needed to remember about driving. Realizing the truck had been left in first gear, I slid into neutral and tried again. The motor coughed to life and settled into a kind of clattering hum. Blue-grey smoke shrouded the cab in the early morning stillness. I revved the engine a time or two, eased the truck into gear, let out the clutch and held on tight as it lurched and died a second time. Feeling a bit more anxious, I bit my lip and steeled myself for the third attempt. The third time was the charm!

First gear was wonderful! I used it with a kind of desperate abandon for several minutes. I really hated the thought of leaving it for second. I knew first. I had a feel for it. Second was a great unknown. However, I finally skewered up my nerve, pounded down on the clutch and ground my way into second. The truck lurched again but didn't die like it had before.

Second was even better than first! I flew over the grass and felt the wheels slide slightly as I put her into a tight turn. Second was really fine! In fact, it seemed about all you could ask for in this pasture of some 60 odd acres. I did figure 8'S, donuts and a host of other equally destructive maneuvers, wreaking varying degrees of havoc on the quality of Dad's pasture.

Elation approached arrogance as I began to steer with one hand, resting the other with supreme confidence atop the back of the pickup seat. Minutes flew by as my sense of power and control approached godlike dimensions. The convulsive fear I had known moments earlier had faded into a distant memory.

"What about third?" I hadn't tried third!

The clutch slid to the floor. I slammed on the brake and slid the truck to a complete stop. My palms were no longer sweating. I was in control. Gunning the engine, I snapped into first gear. Gaining speed, I slid into second. Nothing to it! The motor howled as I punched third home and released the clutch. The speedometer rolled to 40,45,50 miles an hour. "Who said man wasn't meant to fly?"

It was about this time, somewhere just over 50 miles an hour that I hit the chug hole...

My head tried to force its way through the top of the truck's cab as I bounced from the seat. My vision blurred and the world tilted crazily as I swerved to narrowly miss one of the few large mesquite trees in the pasture.

Noting a new and distinct taste in my mouth, I realized that I had bitten through my tongue. Humility had returned. The heat indicator, a throbbing head and the taste in my mouth combined to turn my thoughts toward home. Presbyterians don't generally like to dwell on predestination, but fate was not yet through with me. My destiny was to center on the cedar corner post at the gap leading out of the pasture.

I had been considerably humbled. Extreme caution now dominated my actions once again.

Dad had invested heavily in an irrigation system for the farm. Our land was in an arid region near the coast of South Texas. That irrigation system meant a constant and reliable source of moisture for the farm's cattle and crops.

I faced a hard right-hand turn getting through the gap leaving the pasture. Panic set in! Through a culvert under the road ran the six-inch mainline for dad's irrigation system. From my perspective I had two choices, as the turn seemed too sharp and the road too narrow. I could either veer to the left and run over and crush the mainline or straddle the huge cedar corner post on the right... I chose the post! It bent over and snapped loudly under the onslaught of the speeding truck and my momentum almost let me clear it.

The truck died. I started it again and tried to pull forward off the shattered post. Didn't work. Resting my chin on my knuckles atop the steering wheel, I had a thought. I hadn't tried reverse today! I pushed in the clutch, feathered into reverse and popped that clutch, gunning the engine hard. The lurch backward wedged the broken post firmly in place and partially lifted the rear end of the pick up off the ground. One of the rear wheels now spun freely some four inches above the soil.

The palms of my hands were sweating again. What the hell was I going to do now? Dad would not take this well. I crept across the pasture to the tool shed situated behind the house and slipped out with a large double-bladed ax and slipped back away to the truck. Knowing I was probably done for, I crawled beneath the bed of the truck and began to chop fiercely at the post. Dad was going to kill me for sure, but I had to at least try.

My head was pounding, sweat ran into my eyes and my tongue was a source of pure agony. Sand slipped down my collar and chafed my back and shoulders as I swung that ax with all the will of my determination to live through the day. Things just could not get any worse.

A red ant had worked its way over my boot top and settled on the back of my thigh before deciding to give me a thorough going over. I scrambled to shuck my jeans, doing my level best to crush him in the process. Any of you who wear boots and jeans know just how hard it is to get out of your jeans without taking your boots off first. However, time was a significant factor here, and I was highly motivated!

Fear formed a hard knot in my throat as I heard my father's flat voice asking me what the problem was. As his face appeared beneath the running board of the truck, there must have been something in the expression on my face that softened the anger in his. I crawled from beneath the pickup and rushed through relating the series of events leading up to my decision to save the joint of his mainline pipe over the corner post.

Through my exaggerated gestures, I noticed that Dad was laughing. Tears streamed down his face. I was not going to die! With his arm on my shoulder we walked back to the house together and with the help of the Massey Ferguson tractor, soon had the truck free. Shortly afterward, the corner post had been replaced as well.

In spite of the pain and embarrassment I suffered that morning, or perhaps because of it, I learned the true meaning of redemption that fine day. In the living of his life, my Dad never forgot that he, too, had once been a boy.

I lost him on July 17th, almost three months ago, a little over an hour before daylight. The fabric of his life is so firmly woven into my world; he remains a living, viable, part of all that I see, hear and feel. He lived his life with great joy and simplicity. He was loyal, generous, trusting and giving to his friends and family. He believed in the basic goodness of people. He worked harder than any other man I've ever known. He loved without reservation. He was the kind of man that, as boys, we all knew we'd grow up to be... but didn't, quite.