Sitting at the hospital this past week, Larry, Bev, and I were discussing learning to drive and certain driving experiences. I was telling him how Dad taught me to drive. When I was 26 and pregnant with Bridget, Natasha started to school and I saw how desperately she needed me to be able to drive. I called Dad and asked him if he could teach me. I went on Monday and got my permit, and then every day that week, Daddy came and got me, took me driving, helped me learn the testing route, etc. The following Monday, he took me for the driver’s test. Somehow, I passed. Then, everywhere I went for a few weeks, I called and asked Daddy to go with me because I was too afraid of driving by myself. He went everywhere I asked him and never said a word or complained. He just continued teaching me how to be a good driver. This reminded me of Vickie learning to drive when she was probably fifteen or sixteen. She asked everyone to let her drive so she had some experience, but this particular day she begged Daddy into taking her driving. I went with them. There was a wide area below our house where people turned or parked, and he had Vickie turn there. She backed the car in and then he told her to put the car in drive, check the road for traffic, and pull out. I guess she forgot the part about putting the car in drive because she hit the gas and we backed forcefully into the mountain. We jolted to a halt. Daddy said in the most casual and kind voice, like the patient teacher he was, “Okay, now put the car in drive and pull forward.” It was as if she had NOT just slammed into a mountain. He didn’t check the car for damage or anything. The rest of her drive went uneventfully and Daddy never mentioned the mistake. Again, I learned so much from that event. No wonder he was the one I called years later when I needed to learn to drive . . . . . .
*By Gail*
