Mother's Driving Lesson

I'm doing a short piece for my writing class and will share it here--for posterity. LOL.

Re:  Exclamation Point

Exclamations in our family were rare.  But one incident did occur and remains in my psyche, since it seemed so unlike Dad.  The tale came to be known as "Mother’s Driving Lesson."  It occurred before they brought my brother and me into the world.  And now the story has its place in our family lore.

John and Phyllis had agreed that she should learn to drive.  I’m not sure why, since they owned only one car--a used, stick-shift, 1926 Chevy coupe.  Nevertheless, on a certain Sunday-outing to visit her parents in Bancroft, Michigan, John placed Phyllis behind the wheel and off they went.  I can only imagine the preparations that allowed her to get to the "exclamation" point.  She obviously had some knack of starting and stopping or they wouldn’t have made it as far as they did.

She had to have known that the brake would slow and eventually stop the vehicle.  She also had to have known about the use of the clutch—how it helped in shifting gears and worked with the brake.  The pedals were pressed with the foot—right foot for brake and left foot for clutch—simple enough concept.  Phyllis could handle it.

So on that Sunday drive things apparently went well for most of the 35-mile trip.  I can almost picture it, because after my brother and I came along, the Sunday trips were still occurring.  Eventually the Chevy coupe was traded for a used Chevy sedan to accommodate the four of us.  On those drives I remember peering through the car window as we rode--searching for favorite sites such as Burma Shave signs or the large and colorful Red Man tobacco signs painted on the sides of barns.  Or trying to spy white horses during our games of "Road-side Garbage." Good times.

As I recall John's and Phyllis’s story, I can almost see their approach as they neared Grandma's house and can visualize the mature oak tree as it stood out front—its trunk, dark and unyielding.

Almost there, Phyllis tapped the brake pedal.  She may not have been slowing as much as John thought she should, since the car was supposed to stop just short of the tree.  She was headed straight toward it, but still had time to stop.  John couldn’t take the suspense and began to speak up, “Throw out the clutch!  Throw out the clutch!”  Phyllis knew how to push in the clutch, but had no clue how to throw it out. It was then that the bumper of their Chevrolet coupe and the trunk of the tree met and exclaimed, “Kerchunk!”

I’m happy to report that no one was physically injured.  There may have been a gouge in the tree's trunk and a scratch on the bumper, but the upshot of it was that Phyllis refused to ever drive again.  She managed to carry on nicely through life as a non-driver, because she had good friends and family who did drive and had a husband who didn’t mind chauffeuring her wherever she wanted—quite like royalty.