That's What Dads Are For

That's What Dads Are For

I learned to drive at a very young age. When I was three my Maternal Grandpa bought me one of those little peddle cars. Mine was red. It looked like a '56 Chevy Bel Air. It even had a shiny silver hood ornament. I used to peddle my butt off to get speed and I would drive that thing everywhere. The first thing you need to learn for driving is steering.

When I was six or seven I was tall enough that my Grandpa could put me in his lap and let me steer a real car. By the time I was nine I was driving his farm tractors by myself. I would even take them into town. Top speed was about twenty miles per hour. Back in 1963, in a farm town, kids drove farm equipment all the time. And this town was small, it had the post office inside the country store. There was one bar, one fast food stop, one restaurant, one gas station, the welding shop, and, of course, the beauty parlor/barber shop run by husband and wife.

Back at home I used to mow the 18 acre grounds of the Military Academy all summer when I was ten and eleven. It was one of those Cub Cadet mini-tractors. Often I used to sneak out and drive the family car around the campus. And I really liked driving the Colonel's Jeep! Those were the days when just about everybody just left the keys in the car all the time. I didn't need a house key until I was twelve. We never locked the doors.

When I was thirteen I visited my paternal grandparents in New York. They let me drive their 1962 Rambler Classic 4 door with push button transmission from the Idlewild airport to their house on Long Island. On the way I saved a man's life, but that's another story. A couple days later I took the car all the way into Manhattan and drove around for a while. I almost ran out of gas until I figured out that the gas stations were inside parking garages. And I loved how the cab drivers would all honk their horns just as the traffic lights turned green.

I got my learner's permit in 1968 when I was fifteen. I was enrolled in drivers ed in the spring semester of my sophomore year. I was so good at driving, the instructor would always let me drive last. Three students and the instructor would go out together. The first two students would try his patience and then he would turn the car over to me for the relaxing return trip to the school. I got an A, of course, and I got no points (that's a perfect score) on my driving test when I went for my license in the fall of 1969. But in the summer of 1969 something happened that should have prevented me from getting my license.

My football coach wanted our team to be ready for our fall "campaign" so he had us all working out on or own during the summer. (It was against conference rules to have organized team practices.) He even went so far as to buy us all vitamins. He had called me and told me to pick mine up at his office at the high school. So I asked my parents if I could go get them. They said sure. It was usual for me to take the car even though I only had a permit. I had been driving for years.

Well, this particular day we had a visitor at the house. She was a friend of the family, a junior high school teacher. And she had a brand new shiny red Oldsmobile Cutlass Convertible with a Rocket V8 engine and an eight-track tape player with four speaker stereo! It just happened to be blocking our car, the good old Vista Cruiser. I walked back in the house to explain but she knew, so she tossed me the keys and said, "Take my car." I did.

The top was already down. I started it up, pulled out of the driveway, and started down the road. I pushed in the tape. It was Mitch Ryder and the Detroit Wheels Devil With A Blue Dress; ROCKIN'! The sun was shining and God was in heaven looking down on me. What a day!

I didn't go right to the school. I drove around a little groovin' to the tunes. If I had gone straight there, it should have taken about fifteen minutes, but it must have been more like thirty or forty. There were no cars in the huge parking lot, not one. My coach just lived a couple blocks away and being into fitness, he always walked. He usually treated me like he hated me even though I was probably the best athlete in my class. I was by far the strongest and best football player. I could do it all. He really surprised me that day because he was cordial and jovial; smiling broadly. I'll never forget how he actually patted me on the back! It was creepy and yet I really liked it.

I tossed the bag of vitamins on the front seat and jumped in over the door. The engine purred and the music started. It was Devil With the Blue Dress again. I was at the back of the school driving around to the front. I needed to change the tape and I saw The Beatles Yellow Submarine on the seat next to the vitamins. I pulled out Mitch Ryder and put in the Beatles. Hey Bulldog, that's better. Then I looked out the windshield. I'm going about thirty in the fire lane of the main parking lot completely devoid of cars and what do I see? A Volkswagen Beetle parked one car length in front of me directly in my path. I didn't hit the brakes until after I smashed the bug's rear engine into its front seat.

I was stunned. I thought that I was invincible... until then. My left knee hurt a little but otherwise I was ok. I had just enough warning to hold myself off of the steering wheel. I looked around to see if there was anyone there... no one. Then I remembered that a friend of mine, a boy I was in Boy Scouts with, who was now in a different clique, the hippies, lived right across the street. I walked over to his house and knocked on the door. His dad answered. He remembered me and let me use his phone. I called my Dad.

He was there before I could walk back to the scene of the accident. He didn't yell at me. He was totally normal like he just came by to bring me another car. He just handed me the keys to the Vista Cruiser and said calmly, "Go home." I did. And I never asked and he never mentioned it again. He took the fall for me. After that I went 35 years before I had another accident that was my fault. But that is another story.

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