I was driving the other day and noticed a vehicle ahead of me moving in a peculiar way. The car was making complete stops at stop signs and was executing perfect turns. It was signaling turns well in advance and making lane changes on roads that really didn’t have two lanes. Even before getting close enough to verify, I knew what was going on: This was a drivers’ education car.
Although there are certain timeless aspects, my children’s drivers’ education experience was vastly different than my own. As automobile technology has improved, so too has the process of educating new drivers. For example, my kids actually learned defensive driving and freeway maneuvering, something we did not learn inCannonFalls.
In fact, drivers’ education in a small farm community was unique in many ways. For one thing, all the farm kids already knew how to drive, as long as the vehicle had a slow-moving vehicle sign attached to the back and served some sort of digging, cutting, or hauling function. They claimed that the ability to go slowly back and forth across a field translated directly into the skills necessary to drive an automobile on the road. I had my doubts; but regardless, they had a clear advantage over me, a town kid whose prior behind-the-wheel experience was with a toy steering wheel in the back seat of my parents’ car. As I neared adolescence, that experience grew increasingly unsatisfying.
My parents did actually allow me one other driving experience. They let me back the family car down the driveway — not into the street, mind you — and then drive it back into place — not into the garage, mind you. So, going into my behind-the-wheel training, I was all set, so long as all we were called upon to do was move the car in a straight line backward and forward, ten to twenty feet at a slow speed. I was really good at that.
I also had the opportunity to observe for many years the drivers’ education process first hand. All threeCannonFallsdrivers’ ed instructors lived within a block of my house, and all were teachers at the high school. The first lived directly across the street. He was a shop teacher and the father of one of my best friends. The second, who lived a block away, was a social studies teacher, the mayor ofCannonFalls, and my homeroom teacher. The third, who lived next to the shop teacher was Frank B. Wambach.
Frank B. was great. A science teacher, Frank was huge, a former football player gone somewhat soft, in his mid to late fifties. Although the story may have been apocryphal, the rumor was that Frank had played professional football for the New York Giants, but had quit because there was more money to be made in teaching. I had Frank for several classes, and he was a really bright guy. But he moved and spoke very slowly. In fact, in contest speech, because I had a tendency to speak too fast, my mantra to remember to slow down was “Think Frank.” Frank was my behind-the-wheel instructor.
We all took classroom drivers’ ed instruction as part of the regular school curriculum. We learned just enough to pass the written portion of the test and obtain our learner’s permit. In addition, we saw the obligatory scare movies. The two I remember were “Mechanized Death” and “Unsafe at Any Speed.” Note to instructors: While laudable, the goal of scaring new drivers into submission with grisly graphic accident scenes is, at best, only marginally successful. First, the scenes are so unreal as to lose context. Second, all adolescents, particularly adolescent boys, have this notion of immortality that’s immune to such efforts.
Understandably, all these movies show you what happens when teenage drivers don’t behave responsibly. You don’t see the results of aging, confused drivers tragically traveling the wrong way on freeways or middle-aged drunks driving with suspended licenses. The point is, irresponsibility knows no age boundary.
My father drove long beyond when he was fully capable. I remember as a passenger panicking when he would pull out in front of an oncoming vehicle, narrowly avoiding a collision. My mom drove into her eighties, but wisely limited her driving in later years. I hope the problem of aging drivers refusing to relinquish the keys is a transitory phenomenon, resulting from the fact that these folks are among the first generation of drivers where vehicles represented a significant degree of independence. If not, brace yourself for the aging baby boomers on the freeway.
This next generation has had ample practice with irresponsible driving behavior. Never before have we had quite the opportunity to multitask while driving. If applying makeup or shaving while eating a drive-through breakfast was not enough, we now have the ability to dial our phones or, more significantly, type while driving. Now when I see a swerving car, I don’t think “inebriate;” I think “texter.”
Having endured the gory movies and learned enough to pass the test, I received my learner’s permit, and, armed with my knowledge of how to back a car partway down a driveway, I was ready to begin my behind-the-wheel training. Given my proximity to the three drivers’ ed instructors, I got to watch training in action. The practice parallel parking pylons were always placed just up the block, in front of Frank’s house. So all summer we had the opportunity to sit on my friend’s porch and heckle would-be drivers. How tough could that parallel parking thing be anyway?
Having Frank as my behind the wheel instructor was an experience. It was both intimidating because of his size and low-key because he was a slow, gentle man. His slow speech did pose a bit of a challenge to the beginning driver. Instructions to turn: O—K—n-o-w . . . a-t. . .t-h-i-s . . c-o-r-n-e-r . . .m-a-k-e . . .a—n-o . . .s-o-r-r-y . . .t-o-o . . .l-a-t-e. . .a-t. . .t-h-e . . .t-h-i-r-d . . .c-o-r-n-e-r . . .m-a-k-e . . a . . .l-e-f—n-o- . . .s-o-r-r-y.
Or: O—K—n-o-w. . . Q-u-i-c-k. . . s-t-o-p.
Drivers’ education in a small town had other novel aspects. The goal, obviously, was to prepare us for all driving conditions, a difficult task in a community with only one stoplight, no four-lane roads, and certainly no freeways. There was a one-block road –really an alley — that was the only designated one-way street in town. We practiced that repeatedly. It was a big deal to drive the twenty miles necessary to get to a community with multiple stoplights and, yes, more than one block of real one-way roads.
I was a good driver, but it turns out that I was, in fact, challenged by the task of parallel parking. A failed parallel parking attempt nearly cost me my license on the first try. I think I scored a 72 out of a required 70 necessary to pass. But, for purposes other than bragging rights, the score didn’t matter. I was a licensed driver.
I had plans to put that new license to use. I’d long been saving the earnings from my various lawn mowing and yard maintenance enterprises, so that when the time came, I could purchase a vehicle of my own. My dad and I went to the dealership, surveyed the range of available used cars, and hit upon a 9 year old Ford Fairlane for the astronomical price of, I believe, $600. The Fairlane was quite the vehicle. It was the predecessor to that stylish ‘70’s car, the Ford Torino, which was followed in the Ford design class by that impressively-styledGrenada. Even aside from the styling, the car wasn’t all that much to look at because all four fenders were rusted through. On the plus side, it had a decent-sized V8 engine with plenty of power, two doors (instead of four) to make it sporty, a vinyl roof (which may have negated a bit of the sportyness), and a fully functional AM radio (sans tape player).
I spent the bulk of my spare time the summer after my sophomore year performing home body work on that car in an attempt to make the fenders whole. I didn’t know what I was doing exactly, but I purchased tubs and tubs of body repair putty. The common term (in fact I think it was a brand name) was Bond-o. Using a combination of fiberglass mesh and Bond-o, I filled all those fender holes, sanded them smooth to the best of my ability, and applied can upon can of touch-up spray paint. After countless hours, the final product looked like I was viewing it in a fun-house mirror. Each fender was a wavy, poorly-painted mess, an obvious do-it-yourself repair job. Not exactly my finest hour as a craftsman.
Ultimately, it was okay that I didn’t spend any more time on the repairs. I drove the car to school the first day of my junior year, and, as I was leaving school for the day, someone pulled out of a parking spot and hit the rear end of my car, knocking all the putty loose. It was more than a bit embarrassing to open the trunk of the car, pick up loose chunks of fiberglass and putty from the street, and throw them in to take them home.
From that time on, I cared much less about the car’s external appearance. In its career, the car was actually struck twice more. None of the collisions were my fault, and I collected insurance money each time. Thus the car became a nifty little profit center, netting insurance payments in excess of the $600 purchase price. The car ultimately passed away on a college road trip toMadison,Wisconsin.
Regardless of its appearance, the car was fast. At a time when we had no dates and had not yet discovered drinking to excess, the car provided an outlet for our pent-up testosterone. I’m not proud of this, and it’s extremely fortunate we didn’t kill ourselves or others, but we would play what was essentially a game of car tag throughCannonFallsand the surrounding area. There was only one police officer on patrol at any given time. We would figure out where the officer was likely to be – so we could avoid that area. We would then chase through town trying to lose each other, Burt Reynolds style. That’s not exactly what Frank taught: A-l-l . . .r-i-g-h-t . . .t-u-r-n . . .l-e-f-t . . .a-n-d . . .s-e-e . . .i-f . . .y-o-u . . . c-a-n . . . s-h-a-k-e . . . t-h-a-t . . .t-a-i-l —T-r-y . . . t-h-e . . . o-n-e . . .w-a-y.
These days, I’m more Frank-like. Maybe I just have less testosterone. I’m done driving fast. As I see cars zipping by me, I wonder where they need to get to, particularly as they seem already to be talking to whoever they need to reach. . . .And I’m still trying to master parallel parking.
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