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Who Taught You To Drive?
First, todays winner of Tange: rhyss.decassilene (at) yahoo (dot) com, of Southhampton, NJ, you're getting a book!
Now, on to the topic at hand:
Because of my recent exploits in the realm of teaching my godchildren to drive, I have been reflecting upon the entire experience: learning as a kid, teaching Dawn when I was 24 and she was 25, and then teaching the kids now that I'm 39.
First of all, let me just say that few everyday American activities are more terrifying than deliberately getting in a car with a person who has no idea what they're doing. It is not parallel to riding with drunks, because drunks at least know how to drive, they've just been rendered momentarily blind and reckless. One can comfort oneself with the notion that the drunk might be drunk, but at least knows where third gear is. There's a lot to be said for muscle memory.
Working in a professional kitchen, I teach young people to use dangerous machinery almost daily, so I've got a lot of experience with the tension induced by watching people almost cut their fingers off or come just a hair away from first degree burns. The difference is that in the kitchen I'm not also in danger of injury.
Not like being in the passenger's seat of my beat-up corrolla where my life flashes before my eyes fairly routinely these days.
I'm certain that when my Dad took me out driving in our blue, standard-transmission pinto, he must have been experiencing the same feeling, but I can't remember him ever expressing what I would describe as "mind-numbing fear." I remember him laughing, which was unusual and must have been an expression of sheer relief at not dying when I stalled said pinto while crossing a four-lane highway. He also chuckled quite a lot after I drove through the meticulously kept flower beds in front of the Baptist Church.
Okay, I know why he was laughing after the church-- we didn't get caught.
So, who taught you guys to drive?
Now, on to the topic at hand:
Because of my recent exploits in the realm of teaching my godchildren to drive, I have been reflecting upon the entire experience: learning as a kid, teaching Dawn when I was 24 and she was 25, and then teaching the kids now that I'm 39.
First of all, let me just say that few everyday American activities are more terrifying than deliberately getting in a car with a person who has no idea what they're doing. It is not parallel to riding with drunks, because drunks at least know how to drive, they've just been rendered momentarily blind and reckless. One can comfort oneself with the notion that the drunk might be drunk, but at least knows where third gear is. There's a lot to be said for muscle memory.
Working in a professional kitchen, I teach young people to use dangerous machinery almost daily, so I've got a lot of experience with the tension induced by watching people almost cut their fingers off or come just a hair away from first degree burns. The difference is that in the kitchen I'm not also in danger of injury.
Not like being in the passenger's seat of my beat-up corrolla where my life flashes before my eyes fairly routinely these days.
I'm certain that when my Dad took me out driving in our blue, standard-transmission pinto, he must have been experiencing the same feeling, but I can't remember him ever expressing what I would describe as "mind-numbing fear." I remember him laughing, which was unusual and must have been an expression of sheer relief at not dying when I stalled said pinto while crossing a four-lane highway. He also chuckled quite a lot after I drove through the meticulously kept flower beds in front of the Baptist Church.
Okay, I know why he was laughing after the church-- we didn't get caught.
So, who taught you guys to drive?