Learning to Drive

My first driving lesson was at four years old…and in the snow no less. While I was barely more than a toddler, it is one of my most cherished memories with my brother, David, who happened to be my driving instructor that day.

David himself was not even old enough to have a license. He was just 13 at the time, but he was born a mechanical genius who had an early affinity for automobiles. I am confident he was more qualified at 13 than most 40-something driver’s ed course instructors. 

Winter’s chill was in the air and there was a patchy blanket of snow on the grass. David was home “sick” from school, so rather than going to the babysitter, I got to stay with him while our parents were at work. I am not sure why I remember the particulars of the day so well, but perhaps it was because I was excited to spend the day with him. Days with David usually meant adventure engineering (or deconstructing) some gadget, like way-too-tall stilts or an upside down bicycle, or taking a spin in the snow on dad’s waterskis – while dad was not home, of course.

Another theory of why this day is burned as a core memory in my brain, could be the fact that this was my first taste of rebellion, bundled with the power of a 289 V8 engine in a 1965 Ford Mustang. Coming from a family of automobile enthusiasts, there was always a selection of vehicles around, and our parents didn’t necessarily discourage my siblings from practicing driving around our property. We had nearly five acres with an open field and a long driveway with turnaround points, so it was a safe place to learn the ropes… with parental supervision, of course.

Anyway, David often liked to tinker with the Mustang that had taken up residence parked in our back yard. When he bundled me up and took me outside with him, I thought I would just play around with the radio buttons while he was working on the car. I remember the vinyl seats being cold and stiff. The interior was drenched in powder blue, matching the powder blue exterior. Sitting on my knees in the passenger seat, I could see my breath, but stayed toasty in my mittens and blue fur coat with a white fur collar.

In the driver’s seat, David fiddled with wires under the dash. (Our parents may or may not have hidden the keys, knowing how their children may spend a day of idle time.) I watched as he carefully matched wires together, when suddenly there was a spark and the engine began to rumble! The seats vibrated with the newfound power, and heat began to push through the vents onto my cheeks. David exclaimed with an onery smile, “Well, hot damn! …Want to learn how to drive today?”

Something in me told me that Mom and Dad would likely not be thrilled with this, but I trusted David with every ounce of my being. He was my big brother. My protector. My teacher. This confidence in my big brother’s capabilities prompted my four-year-old version of “hell yeah!” to kick in immediately.

I jumped over to his lap behind the big, freezing, chrome-trimmed steering wheel, and put my mittened hands on the grips. David pressed the clutch, shifted the gear stick, and tapped the gas. We lurched forward and he helped me crank the manual steering wheel to turn the corner around the house and down the drive. 

We made countless passes up and down the driveway that day, for as long as the needle on the gas gauge would allow. My feet dangling off the driver’s seat from his lap and hands firmly on the wheel, I felt like I was really driving that wild stallion – and I was having the time of my life! In reality, without power steering and legs too short to get anywhere near the pedals, David was doing all the driving with his kid sister along for the ride. He did all the work, but made me feel like I was truly doing something big and important. 

It breaks my heart to say we lost David this past year after he fought a courageous and noble battle with Leukemia. That driving lesson may have been decades ago, but as I look back on that day – that single moment in the cascade of my memories -something profound strikes me. What he did for me and our shared experience that day is a reflection of our relationship for the next 50 years, and who David was as a person. 

David was insanely smart and could fix (or hotwire) anything. He was the go-to guy everyone leaned on when no one else could figure it out.

David was a warm, gentle, and kind-hearted soul, beneath a sometimes gruff exterior.

David was clever, mischievous, ornery, and didn’t mind causing a little trouble for the sake of a good time and a good story.

David didn’t speak just to talk. When he spoke, it served you well to listen.

David delivered the absolute best zingers. Those targeted by one of his legendary retorts are likely still nursing their burns.

David would prop up and encourage others, while humbly dismissing his own achievements.

David took zero shit and would plainly call out those who dished it.

David was incredibly intuitive and would quietly swoop in with reassurance and guidance just when you needed it most.

David would (and did) go to battle for those he loved.

David was a teacher of life, giving us all lessons even when we (and he) didn’t know it at the time.

For me, David always made me feel like I was doing something “big and important” in life with his encouragement and support. I would not be who I am without David. Cancer is a thief, but the ticking of that awful clock did move us to express what was in our hearts more openly. While I cherish every single one of those “love ya’s,” I still wish I told him more how proud I am of him – and how proud I am to be his little sister.

David and his journey taught me how important it is to enjoy the sweet, simple moments. Looking back, it seems, to really live and enjoy the ride, you have to grab life by the wheel, punch the gas, and drive ahead with all your might – even when it feels like you can’t quite reach the pedals. 

Thank you, David, for that lesson, and so many others. ♥️