By Mike Johnson
Like all technology, automatic transmissions are both good and bad.
They’re easier to drive, but you lose the pleasure of shifting gears.
Sort of like store-bought muffins vs baking them yourself.
When dad bought the 1969 Volkswagen beetle, it was a novelty.
The main car was a beloved station wagon that had taken us all over the American west.
But the VW had better gas mileage and became dad’s daily driver.
When I turned 15, I had to learn how to drive both cars.
The station wagon had an automatic transmission, the VW had a clutch to shift gears.
Both cars would soon imprint some crazy memories.
Mom had died a year before, so dad was his own babysitter.
As the oldest kid, I became the boss when dad wasn’t around.
When he attended a class reunion 60 miles north of the Twin Cities, he took us three boys along in the station wagon.
We entertained ourselves for hours in the car.
About midnight, dad stumbled out of the event quite drunk.
“You’re gonna hafta drive home fella,” he said before passing out.
I had my learner’s permit but that required adult supervisor from the passenger seat.
Close enough.
My two younger brothers suddenly got promoted to navigators.
Getting back to the Twin Cities was easy, finding the proper roads in the metropolis was not.
Luckily the roads were empty and I came across a street I recognized from prior bus rides downtown.
I followed that bus route home.
Whew! Made it!
Not so fast.
Dad awoke drunker than we’d started and thought the neighbor’s house was his.
Before we could stop him, he’d opened the neighbor’s storm door and was pounding on the main door yelling to be let in.
In the middle of the night.
It took all three of us begging, crying and pulling him away from that door.
Not his finest moment.
A few weeks later, dad had me drive the VW to Target.
I was jerky with the clutch, but we got there and parked head-on with another car.
Shit went south as we left.
I pushed in the clutch, started the VW in first gear, and for some reason, thought I had to release the clutch before putting the shifter into reverse.
The car exploded forward smacking the bumper of the car in front of us.
“Dammit fella!”
Dad got out, surveyed damage and left a note.
I’d moved to the passenger seat but he made me get back behind the wheel.
Still rattled, I got us within a mile of home before I hit a yellow light at that exact weird moment of decision.
I was going to keep going, decided otherwise, then hit the brakes hard.
The guy behind us slammed into my bumper.
“Dammit fella!”
Two accidents in 10 minutes.
It was dad’s way.
If you screwed up, he always doubled down, angrily making you do it again, ignoring the fact that the first screw up had greatly reduced your self-confidence to perform.
This was big trauma to me back then.
But with a lifetime of perspective, I realize I was just 15, he’d forced the issue, it wasn’t my car and repairs were his problem.
So was his drinking.
Without a manual, he was clutching for ways to raise three boys without a wife.
Without a patient coach, I was clutching for ways to drive.
Both of us were looking for peace.
He remarried, got his act together and lived an exemplary last 40 years.
I married, avoided dad’s drinking and parenting mistakes, and just shake my head at all the crazy childhood memories.
The drive was certainly jerky.
But that forced learning how to smooth things out.
And a deep, deep appreciation for a smoother ride since.
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More:
Love Your Kids? Make Them Work
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