A friend wrote on Facebook the other day about giving her younger daughter one last lesson in
parallel parking (I assume before that milestone-passing driver’s test). In addition to smiling with delight at how
much she was enjoying this as a special event, not an arduous duty,
I smiled in memory of my own parallel parking lessons.
Unlike every other person I
knew, I did NOT learn how to drive at age 16.
No idea why I missed out on having Chief Ryan teach me how to drive – we
were immensely blessed in my hometown to have a chief of police who did such
amazing things – but miss out I did.
My guess is that I was none
too invested in the idea of getting a driver’s license, as I was pretty sure my
sister would never let me get near the car.
(A suspicion, I am glad to say, she confirmed many years later, saying,
“I’m glad you understood that.”)
Dad, on the other hand,
blissfully unaware of the sibling dynamics that would have doomed my driving to
only the utter dregs of opportunities, was eager for me to learn. And he would teach me.
Even at 16, I knew this was
not a good idea.
Dad decided to start me out
in the parking lot at the high school field house, but quickly decided against
that when he realized there were a) cars parked there for the nearby swim club
which b) adults & kids walking
to & from. He quickly recalculated
next-best-place & decided on the much smaller parking lot next to Pitcairn
Hall.
Strange, but true – I was
fine driving, if we were on actual roadway.
It made sense to my practical mind.
I could handle it. Learning how
to drive in a small parking lot did not make sense to me, left me feeling
distinctly uncomfortable.
Which I promptly
demonstrated by running the car up a curb, then slamming it back down onto the
pavement.
Dad asked me why I had
stopped.
I asked Dad, “Don’t you hear
a hissing sound?”
He got out, looked at the
left front tire – on the driver’s side – looked at me in a way I can’t describe
& have no desire to, then walked around to the back of the van, opened the
doors, took out the jack & one of the two spare tires he always kept back
there (when you use a car commercially, as my lumberman Dad did, it pays to be
over cautious), lugged them around, and replaced the ruined tire.
I was aware of the people
playing tennis across the road watching all this, pausing occasional to
make comments to each other. Mortified
doesn’t begin to describe my feelings.
Dad finished up, put the
beyond-repair tire & the jack in the back of the van – and to my total
horror, got back into the car on the passenger’s side.
Hey, I was 16 – unschooled
in the ways of male thinking. Now, I get
it. If he had been intent on teaching
his youngest child how to drive before, now he was fiercely determined.
“Okay,” he said in a totally
calm voice, as if it made total sense, “That wasn’t something you want to do
again. Turn the engine on, let out the
clutch & make a circuit around the parking lot.”
“Can’t I drive across the
road, drive around the loop in front of Benade Hall?” I asked, knowing it was
roadway & that it was on school property; on a Sunday afternoon, that meant
no one was in danger of being hit.
Maybe he was trying to
soothe my shattered, humiliated nerves or maybe he wanted to calm his own, but Dad
let me drive the van across the road, around the loop & back again. It all went off without a hitch.
Maybe he felt like my steady
driving on roadway boded well for renewed lessons in the parking lot. “Okay, now make a circuit around the parking
lot,” he instructed me.
So, I did. Although there was no cars to worry me as I
drove the circuit, across the road four pairs of upperclassmen eyes were soaking it
all in from the tennis court. And they
had stopped playing & were just watching.
Me.
Which is when I went up on
the curb again – this time on the passenger’s side – and slammed back down on
the pavement.
I looked at Dad, Dad looked
at me, and it seemed an eternity until he cocked his head to his right,
listened, leaned out the window & listened more intently, opened the door
& looked down. Then got out of the
van, walked around to the back, hoisted out the second spare tire & the
jack & replaced the now destroyed second tire.
To this day, I do not know
who the tennis players were, but I knew they had a pretty awesome story to
tell, one that would keep their friends in stitches & me offering up thanks
that it happened over the summer, that by the time September rolled around it
would be old news.
After that, Dad never made
so much as a peep about driving lessons.
Which was fine by me.
It wasn’t until the ripe old
age of 24, after I got my first job &
needed to be able to get all my teaching paraphernalia to & from the elementary school, that I finally learned how to drive. A
backpack would not suffice.
By then, Dad had been gone
for a couple years. My best friends
offered to teach me. Using their car,
brave souls, since there was no way my sister, who was bequeathed his new van,
was letting me near it. Praise be, they were patient & kind &
seemed to understand that I really was not eager to be doing it.
The one thing that I
remember above everything else was how Dave was a stickler for parallel
parking. There was no way he was going
to have me take the driver’s test until he was absolutely, positively sure I would nail parallel parking. How well I
remember the look in his eyes when, having parked in what I thought was a
perfectly acceptable fashion, he’d eye the results, give a small yet
encouraging sigh, and have me try again.
To this day, whenever I find myself in a big city faced with the option of paying $$$ parking garage fees or maneuvering my car into a tiny parking spot, I offer up thanks for having such a darn
picky teacher.
Jenn – may Marley nail the
parallel parking section of her driver’s test.
Knowing her Mom, my bet is she will!
