Memories: The Driving Lessons
Today as I was working, something sparked a memory of my dad teaching me to drive. At the time of these lessons, I was only 15 and my dad would take me to dirt roads to teach me to drive. I always looked forward to the lessons as we walked out the door to get into the car but somewhere along the road, my frame of mind always changed. We would only be gone a few hours but as I look back, I can honestly say learned a lot during those short times together.
Bless Daddy, he wasn’t the most patient man. In fact, he did a lot of stomping the floor and twitching while he was in the passenger seat. It wasn’t because I was a bad driver but more because HE wasn’t in control of the vehicle.
There was usually a constant banter between us that consisted of him giving me directions in a pained tone and me saying, “I know!” The longer we stayed out, the worse Daddy’s nerves became and the more he fussed at me. The more he fussed, the more I fumed and pouted until I would eventually drive into our yard, get out without saying a word, and stomp into the house to flop down onto the sofa.
More times than not, Mama was there waiting for our return with an amused expression on her face. At first, I didn’t notice her expression but after a month or so, I asked her why she was smiling. As I pouted, sprawled on the sofa in my usual position, she gave me the answer. “Well, you two leave here every weekend to have driving lessons. Every weekend, one of you comes back mad and the other comes back crying.”
Needless to say, at 15 I didn’t see the funny side. Mama was a smart cookie. She understood that all of the emotional stuff was just a rite of passage and that in the end, it would all come out in the wash.
Now, I find myself waiting with anticipation for the time when it is my turn to sit in the passenger seat and stomp the floor for the nonexistent break pedal while my son learns to drive. Yes, I fully expect for one of us to come back mad and the other to be crying. I also suspect my son will eventually cherish these memories as much as I do.
It’s amazing how much the small things like Mama’s comment and Daddy’s willingness to continue the lessons have come to mean to me. I think I’ll make a point of making more memories with my son.
Car Rides & Family Stories
As a child, I remember taking trips and sitting in the back seat of the car while my mother and grandmother talked. Most kids either don’t miss a thing or tune it all out. While in the back seat, I was usually in the “tune it out” mode. When the old stories started coming out in the conversations, you can bet I quickly found myself in the “don’t miss a thing” mode. I loved those family stories that my grandmother told. There was just something about hearing that the people I admired the most were in fact real people, just like me.
There were stories of silly but funny mistakes. These were my favorites because the laughter seemed to add to the comfy feeling during trips. There were stories about family history and how so-and-so got into trouble. Even at the ripe age of 6, I could tell what was condoned and what wasn’t, even if I didn’t understand everything that was said. Stories about my mom as a child were great. They gave me something to aspire to. No matter what kind of story was being told, I felt like I was a part of it all because I could listen, ask questions, and laugh along with everyone else.
During my teenage years, which I call my eye-rolling and sighing stage, I still found myself in the back seat on trips and still ignoring a lot of what was being said. Evidently I was hiding behind the door when they handed out patience but did manage to get a double dose of nosiness. Sigh. Anyway, during this time, I was tired of hearing the family stories. It seemed that they couldn’t tell them fast enough to suit me. I remember thinking that the details were more elaborate and tended to stretch on for a longer time than when I was little.
Now, I find myself in the older adult stage and talking with my mother, in the front seat. “Remember Grandmother’s story about…” seems to come up a lot. Sometimes I find myself asking Mama to tell the stories that Grandmother used to tell. Mama and I would both like to hear her tell all those stories again so we could make more of an effort to write them down. It’s too late to talk to Grandmother about the family stories and family history, but it’s not too late to write about what we remember.
When Grandmother was still with us, I could recite the stories by heart. Somewhere along the way, I’ve forgotten bits and pieces. I’ve even forgotten whole stories. Since the whole “story” experience has come to mean more than I ever thought it would, I’ve decided to make a time when Mama and I can sit down together and stroll down memory lane. This time, I’m taking notes!
