New Driver

It was almost 5 p.m. when I returned to the newspaper office to wave my newly acquired driver’s license at my parents, announcing — on this bright spring day in 1958 — that I had aced the test to legally sit behind the wheel of the family car.

“Proud” would be a mild way to describe the glow radiating from my face. I was thrilled — equal parts joy, excitement, and a bit of fear. Back in the day, learning to drive had been my biggest challenge and accomplishment. The trick to shifting gears was getting your left foot and right hand to work in perfect harmony — easing from first to second, then to third — without stripping the gears or killing the engine because you shifted at the wrong speed.

Reverse brought its own problems. If you weren’t careful, you’d end up in second gear instead, all because the gearshift — mounted on the steering column — was fussy and awkward. And noisy.

Still, I strutted through the newsroom showing off that bit of white paper, exclaiming I was an expert. A new one, sure — but an expert nonetheless.

Early the next morning, Mother said we were out of eggs. Naturally, I volunteered. Foust’s Convenience Store was only eight blocks away — a quick jaunt down the street and back. Easy.

As I backed out of the driveway, I nervously looked both ways, took short breaths, and tried to settle my nerves. I drove the eight blocks at a cautious 20 miles per hour, eyes on the road, mind focused.

And then I saw it — a mosquito. An encephalitis-carrying monster flitting around the windshield, just daring me to ignore it. I wasn’t about to let that disease-filled pest get the best of me. Eyes narrowed. Hand raised. I struck.

And missed. Then came the sound: metal crunching metal. I “came to” with my head between two pieces of the steering wheel, my glasses broken, my nose bleeding. I’d hit a parked car just a block from my egg-buying destination.

Oh — and I was crying. I jumped out of the car, ran to the nearest house, and pounded on the door, sobbing for my mother and begging forgiveness for wrecking someone’s car.

Mother and my younger sister arrived within minutes, assuring the homeowner that I was okay and apologizing for my driving. As we walked back to the car, my sister quietly asked, “Did you buy the eggs? Because if you did, there’s probably going to be a mess to clean up.”

Not funny. Nor was it funny when my most embarrassing moment ended up on the front page of our newspaper the next day.

So if you’re wondering why self-driving cars give me a headache and fill me with fear… now you know.

That Little Voice