Driving And Other Lessons

Have you heard the latest?

Kids are, supposedly, safer in the car when their grandparents are behind the wheel.

Many reasons are suggested: grandparents simply drive slower, do not chat on the phone or text about how Morgan broke up with Brittany during lunch and, in general, are hyper-careful because of the extremely precious cargo they carry in the back seats of their Buicks.

May I also put forth that grandparents know the actual definition of the word "yield," which, based on my own experience entering the Cross Island from the Bronx River Parkway North, is a word that no one seems to be familiar with in 2011.

My mother, who lived in the city for 70 years never learned to drive so the issue of her ferrying my children about never arose.

A driver's license is simply not necessary if you live in Brooklyn. There is more than enough public transportation to take you wherever you wish to go.

When I was 16, however, my mother decided that she should get her license.

On the day of her first lesson, the entire extended family (siblings, in-laws, parents, aunts, uncles plus a few people we'd never seen before), shocked by this bold move, crowded together by the bay window to watch as she took the wheel.

I think my grandmother must have baked for the occasion because I seem to remember strudel and coffee being passed around.

  

In the city, driving instructors come to fetch you at your door in cars with dual wheels so they can steer you away from the pedestrian you are about to flatten at the stop sign.

My mother's instructor, a gentle soul named Edward, greeted her warmly, holding the driver's door open as she got comfortable in the unfamiliar position of the driver's seat. Those of us hovering by the window munched strudel and waited patiently.

My mother and Edward sat in the car for close to 20 minutes. No doubt he was explaining the basics. We waited.

Eventually, she turned the key and the car, a modest sedan, came to life. Still, we waited.

The moment arrived--she pulled away from the curb. She'd obviously turned the wheel as far to the left as possible because she left the space they'd occupied by the fire hydrant at nearly a right angle, suddenly lurching into traffic and very nearly into a collision with a car that was coming down the street. 

A grandparent was most likely at the wheel because, despite my mother's very abrupt appearance in his path, he was able to stop before she hit him.

Some shouting then occurred.

First between the gentle Edward and the man driving the other car. Then, between Edward and my mother and, ultimately, among the large crowd by the window patiently awaiting disaster, as we reacted to the fracas below and exchanged the cash we'd bet on how quickly she'd screw up.

Most of us had bet that it would occur pretty quickly.

My mother, while talented and very smart, possessed no reflexes as far as medical science could discern.

She'd told tales of how doctors had battered her knees with those little rubber hammers during physical exams to no avail. While a fast thinker, that speed had not seemed to translate to her limbs.

She was simply not designed to drive a "2,000 pound death machine" as I used to refer to cars while my sons were learning so as to terrorize them emphasize how serious the act of driving actually is. You're welcome, my sons.

But back to my mother: The car, still at the right angle, had come to a jarring halt and the door of the driver's side flew open. My scowling mother exited, not bothering to shut the car door behind her and stormed back into the house, never to sit behind the wheel of a car again.

It had taken all of 20 minutes to end her driving career. Thank God.

She arrived upstairs to find us all busy, anywhere but near the window, pretending we'd seen nothing. I think I spent the money I'd won on ice cream.