Driving

On Sunday mornings when I was little Dad would toss me the car keys and say, “It’s almost time for church. Go warm up the car.” The first time he did this I hesitated and he noticed. “What’s the problem? You know how, don’t you? You’ve seen me do it often enough.” I nodded my head realizing for the first time that I really did know how to start the car all by myself and Dad wasn’t making a mistake entrusting this sacred and noble task to me. Off I went.

Some months later he’d hand me the keys and say “Back the car out of the garage for me. You know which pedal is the brake, right? That’s the only pedal you need to know!” I’d nod my head and off I’d go.

We were living in Des Plaines, Illinois when my dad started these drills. I was in the third or fourth grade at the time. My dad had his own ideas when kids should do such things, and his ideas didn’t always conform to what the state legislature desired and the police enforced.

When we moved to Cedar Rapids Dad would have me driving on the gravel county roads after outings to state parks, which we took fairly often. To be generous, I might have been 13 years old at the time and two years away from my learner’s permit. He’d pull off on one of these county roads on the way home and say, “Tom, I’m tired. Why don’t you drive for a while?” It wasn’t rocket science, and I’d been watching him drive the car for years, so it really wasn’t a big deal. We’d switch places and off I’d go with Dad riding shotgun. He didn’t need to tell me; I knew this was another one of those “Don’t tell Mom” moments.

As I drove I always tried to demonstrate how responsible I was and that I was worthy of his faith in me. I observed the speed limit carefully and used the turn signals consistently in the middle of nowhere Iowa. We were likely to come across some farm trucks and tractors on the back roads, so I sat up straight in an attempt to look bigger and older than I was. It also helped to see over the steering wheel and dashboard.

Dad never seemed nervous while I was driving. He acted as if it was the most natural thing in the world. He would gaze out the right-hand window looking at the crops for long periods of time. He paid no attention at all to my driving or where we were going. I’d say “Dad, I don’t know where I am going.” He’d say “You are headed south. Home is down there somewhere. Keep heading south. Let me know if you cross any asphalt roads.”

Eventually we would reach the outskirts of town and we would switch drivers again. I didn’t drive in busy traffic. I also noticed that I never drove when my mom and brothers were around. I assumed that Dad wanted to keep the death toll down to two if I screwed up.

One day when I was driving on the gravel roads with Dad a huge summer rainstorm engulfed us. I could only see 10 to 20 yards in front of the car and was just creeping along. We couldn’t even see as far as the ditch on the side of the road. It occurred to me that Dad might not want to hurt my feelings by taking over the driving in the bad conditions, so I offered to switch to make it easier for him.

If I was describing myself I would say I had more balls than brains. Since it was Dad in this instance I will say he had more bravado than good sense. When I suggested that we switch drivers he said, “Nah, just drive down the middle of the gravel road. There’s nobody out here in the middle of nowhere.”

About two minutes later a huge farm tractor pulling a set of discs that stretched nearly across the entire gravel road loomed out of the driving rain. I pulled the wheel fast, slammed on the breaks, and headed toward the ditch, but wasn’t willing to go into the ditch. The tractor never made a defensive move so his discs ended up hitting our front left bumper.

There really isn’t much more to the story. Dad exchanged information with the farmer in the middle of the road in the middle of a driving rainstorm. I suppose that Dad had to “tell Mom” about this one because the police came to our house a few days later and Dad told me to stay in my room. I was more than happy to do so. Mom and Dad had a conversation with the police, but I never heard a word about the subject, the content, or the outcome. I assume it was about the accident, but I don’t actually know that. What I do know is that nobody went to court, and that jail was never mentioned for either of us, but still, for years I couldn’t help but wonder if it was only a matter of time before the police showed up to take me away.

(Still wondering)