
A very long time ago, I was 16 and learning to drive. My parents owned a brand-new red Volkswagen Beetle with a gearshift on the floor. Way back then Driver’s Ed was not offered in schools, nor were there classes that you could pay for and go to away from school. (at least where I lived anyway, which was the great state of Kentucky) This meant one of my parents would have to teach me to drive. Note: I have put a dent somewhere on every car I have driven from the age of 16 to 60. Perhaps I needed more teaching? Or more learning?
My dad worked long hours at the steel mill so my mother took on this scary chore. It didn’t help that my mother, in my opinion, was a bit on the bossy side and was hardly subtle with criticisms, which was proven the second time she took me out to drive. Long story short, within 15 minutes, she had insisted I get out of the car and walk home. Nothing was ever mentioned again about her being my driving instructor. She had firmly resigned from that job.
Dad took over and honestly, had the patience of Job. He at least stuck with me long enough for me to take and pass by driver’s test. Over the next several months, my dad had to replace the clutch three times. The last time he put in a truck clutch, hoping it would live through my constant ‘riding the clutch’. I also did a few doughnuts one rainy day in the middle of the street and slid into an embankment. I pulled forward, got myself back and the road, and went on home.
I had barely pulled onto the carport when Dad came flying out of the house to see what was going on. You see, every tailpipe from the VW was lodged firmly in that embankment. That little car sounded just like an airplane was pulling into the driveway.
At some point the VW disappeared and a car with an automatic shift appeared. That is another story. Not having a clutch did not mean that the car was safe when I was driving.
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