Because humor is funnier when you know it's true.
The driving lesson
It was 1961. That was the year the State of Washington gave me a learner’s permit, and I attempted Driver’s Ed. It was also the year that I almost totaled our car and my father.
I was a mechanical whiz, with the exception of automobiles. This was not helped by the fact that I had the slowest reflexes in three states. Have you ever seen the cars most of us had back in 1961? Those suckers were BIG. And you had to make them do things, like merge into traffic, make left turns and parallel park. I flunked Driver’s Ed the first time, and had to repeat it. The teacher almost had a stroke. I remember the sound of his voice yelling at me. You don’t get over things like that.
Dad was a Long Island Italian who had transplanted himself and us to Washington State. He was a generous, soft-hearted, boisterous, friendly guy. He also had a temper, and he never hesitated to speak the truth. One day, he decided to give me a driving lesson.
I was happy. Dad was an excellent driver, and could give me good pointers. I got behind the wheel of our big, green Chevy and he got in on the passenger side. I inserted the key and started the car. Starting a car was not a problem for me. It was what came afterward that was always messy, and this time I would outdo myself.
The town we lived in was small, with only one busy street. The others were backstreets, with so little traffic that kids could roller skate and play softball games on them. It was an ideal place to practice driving – or so we thought.
I got the car across the main street without mishap. The lesson went well enough, until the moment I almost had a head-on collision with an oncoming car because I was making a right turn too wide. Dad’s reaction was predictable.
“What the HELL are you doin’?! You almost hit that car!”
I stopped the car, because I was shaking like a blender on high speed.
“What you stoppin’ for? You stupid or somethin’? We’re goin’ home NOW!”
“I have to stop for a minute. I have to get my composure back.”
“Get goin’ NOW or I’ll give you composure! Holy s**t! You’re dangerous!”
I took my foot off the brake and got the car going again. Dad kept up a running monologue all the way home. I said nothing. I felt like crawling under the steering wheel and not coming out for the rest of my life.
When we got home, Dad blared out the whole story to the rest of the family, in vivid, colorful detail. They agreed that I was hopeless … when they stopped laughing.
Eventually, I became a good driver. I had so much practice, I had to be good. By the time I got through, I could do anything, except parallel parking. I never did master that.
- Kathy Minicozzi
Follow Kathy on her blog: "Welcome to My Quirky World" - https://kminicozzzi.blogspot.com/
And check out her book: "Opera For People Who Don't Like It" - https://www.amazon.com/Opera-People-Who-Dont-Like/dp/0692553851/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=