Last Sunday in my weekly phone chat with my Dad, he told me he almost had a car accident. While trying to find Costco, he got lost. It was dark and raining and he couldn’t see the off-ramp signs. Either could the guy in front of him. But as my Dad continued to drive and look, the guy in front of him came to a complete stop. On the freeway! Traveling 55 mph, he slammed on his brakes. Miraculously he stopped within a foot of the guy’s car.
This caused a chain reaction of braking and congestion. My Dad drove away irritated and shaken. He said he realized his reflexes were not what they used to be. He vowed to stay off the freeway at night.
At his age, probably a good idea.
When I was fourteen, my Dad taught me how to drive—a manual transmission on his Karmann Ghia. (Yes, the same KG that accompanied me to college and was subsequently banned from Sorority Row.)
At that time, my Dad lived on Indian Wells Golf Course in Indian Wells, CA (with that wicked woman, the Black-Haired Spaghetti)—near Palm Desert where we had lived before (without the BHS). I had been driving a golf cart for years. But that took no skill. I wanted the real thing.
In my KG, I felt like Suzanne Somers in American Graffiti, cruising the golf cart paths on the back nine that summer—although never shifting past third gear.
This was also the summer that Dino, Desi, and Billy visited the area. Desi Arnaz (of Lucille Ball fame) owned Indian Wells Hotel. Desi Jr. hung out there. So did his pals, Dino (as in Dean Martin, Jr.) and the other member of their singing group, Billy Hinche.
I had one of their albums. I loved the song, “Got To Get You In To My Life.” (It was many years later that I discovered that was originally a Beatles’ song!)
It was all the rage that summer to see if you could catch a glimpse of D-D&B driving around in their golf carts. There were several sightings. My sister said her girlfriend said she had actually talked to them. I could never verify this, but it was a good story anyway.
When I was fifteen I took Driver’s Training in High School. It was a semester-long class you had to pass to qualify for a Driver’s Permit. The class was in a portable building, like a Quonset hut, behind the football field. Students sat in fake car seats attached to a dashboard and steering wheel. While watching a screen that displayed an animated driving experience, you pretended to drive along the road and through traffic situations.
I thought it was dumb. I never liked video games.
But I did like the real driving. The teacher was a part-time faculty person, hired by the school district just for this class. I don’t recall his name but I remember what he looked like—Niles Crane from Frasier.
The first time he and I had a real driving lesson, I told the teacher I already knew how to drive.
He said something like, “OK, let’s see what you can do.”
To which I replied something like, “Hang on to your seat belt. It’s going to be a bumpy ride!” JK….
I drove us around the school (at the correct speed: 25 mph). Then I told him I would take him to my neighborhood. Along the way I pointed out the houses where other kids lived.
We drove down my street and I saw my Mom’s car in the driveway (white Chevy Caprice with a 427 horsepower engine. BOY that car was fast!).
I said to the driver’s ed teacher, “My Mom’s home. You want to meet her?”
He said, “Sure.”
My Mom was delighted to have male company, especially an “educator.” She served him coffee and cheesecake. They sat at our kitchen table and talked until we had to get back before the period ended.
For the next few weeks, my driving lesson was on a Monday, my Mom’s day off. My Mom and Driver’s Ed Teach enjoyed their coffee klatches.
Of course I received an A in the class. But I would have gotten it without the cheesecake—or my Mom.
Suzanne Somers in her T-Bird in "American Graffiti."
