I swung by the high school the other day on a summer errand. The lot, predictably, was empty, except for this lone roadster, driving up and back and back and forth and round and round.
A young man sat behind the steering wheel, his eagle-eyed dad riding shotgun. And from the looks of things, the lesson wasn't progressing very smoothly.
This snap, which I blurred on purpose to protect those involved, puts me in mind of teaching my own chicas how to drive. Ella Numera Dos, I vaguely recall, didn't really grasp the concept of merging. She proved that on a trip to The OBX, when we exited near Williamsburg and she drove us right in front of a semi.
Glad that truck driver had good brakes.
Ella Numera Una was no better. She once left her high school boyfriend's house on an cold winter's day. Let's just say she was in somewhat of a hurry, and SUVs don't usually stop on a dime when the street is frozen solid under three inches of ice.
Luckily for the kid, she was in a big car as she blew through the neighborhood stop sign at 40 mph or so. Unluckily for the (parked) Corolla that she T-boned, the chassis separated from both axles and landed about 20 feet from someone's attractive living room picture window.
The car Una smacked ended up looking like a giant fiberglass bug in the throes of an exotic pre-mating ritual. The SUV? Some front-end damage and a smashed-up left headlight, is all.
There's a lesson in these tales somewhere. Teach your children well. Sometimes you'll just have to look at them and sigh. And know they love you.*
*(With thanks and apologies to Graham Nash.)