I’ve been thinking about when I was ten, and my mother was teaching me how to drive. She was great about finding activities we could use to bond.
Those were the days where if I’d crashed the car into someone else, there’d be some insurance issues, but people didn’t speed-dial their attorneys for every little insult. I didn’t crash this time, though, and that’s a good thing because Mom generally avoided having insurance.
I got a real taste for driving after these early lessons. Most summers when my visit with Grandma Valleley came to an end, Mom would take a nap in the back seat as I drove the three hours home. That was a blast.
Another cool thing Mom taught me was how to road-rage. She was an innovator of sorts because we didn’t even have an official name for this hobby back then. I remember many coaching sessions on the freeway where she taught me how to carefully tailgate someone, then zigzag around a bunch of cars, leaving some poor sucker trapped in traffic.
We had many warm moments where we’d laugh as Mom asked, “Did you see that guy’s face? Wow, is he angry! Good job!” All that positive reinforcement made me feel so proud.
I quickly developed a habit of snagging car keys when people weren’t around, like the time Mom was out on a date. I was twelve, bored, and home alone, so I took her Plymouth Satellite for a spin around the neighborhood.
It was pitch black out except for the occasional streetlamp, so I was careful. I drove about two miles an hour, and I kept the headlights off so that the cops wouldn’t see me. The car was dark grey, so I sort of blended into the night. This seemed sensible.
When I was trying to turn around to head back to the house, I almost hit a parked boat, but I got back to the driveway okay. About twenty-five years later, I told Mom about this adventure, and she was shocked. I honestly don’t know why. It wasn’t as bad as the time I took my friend Sharon’s parents’ Cadillac out for a joy ride.
Sharon’s mom and dad had gone on a two-month summer vacation and left Sharon in charge of everything. I was staying with her for a while because Mom had kicked me out of the house because I needed kicking out. Sharon was sixteen and had a driver’s license, and I was fifteen with five years of driving experience, so it was a setup for success.
One night at about two in the morning, I got hungry for a warm salted pretzel from 7-Eleven, which happened a lot that summer. I woke Sharon up to ask if she wanted anything, but she just told me where the car keys were and went back to sleep.
As I parked in the store’s lot, a patrol car pulled in behind me. The officer said one of my headlights was out of adjustment, so he wanted to let me know. He didn’t feel like doing the paperwork for an official ticket, but he did want to see my license, which was funny because I didn’t have one.
Fortunately he was able to take me to the local sheriff’s station, where my mother was working that night as a dispatcher. Mom’s face was full of grave concern, and her tone was way more serious than I was used to, so I was a little worried about how much trouble I was in.
The officer told her that I was a “polite little lady,” and he would just let me off with a verbal warning.
After he left, I braced myself for being grounded, but Mom started laughing and told me what a silly I was for getting caught. Then she gave me a ride back to Sharon’s place. She was cool like that.
It’s been decades since I last honored her teachings by road-raging, but I still appreciate these warm memories.