I was born in East Lansing, Michigan in the 1930s. By 1945, when my 14th birthday approached, it was time for me to learn to drive. You could get a license in Michigan at age 14. Driver training classes didn’t exist, so the job of teaching fell to my parents − a demanding task, made worse by the fact that they had launched my brother into the driving world only two years earlier. I have never met a parent who looked forward to teaching a kid to drive. Most likely that’s the reason that driver training later was foisted off on the schools.
My father was appointed Main Instructor, which says something about the cleverness of my mother. Saturdays or Sundays Dad and I practiced in the Michigan State campus parking lots, empty on weekends in those days.
My lessons commenced years before automatic transmissions, so learning to coordinate clutch, accelerator and brake was daunting. Dad and I rode (well, more like slammed and jounced) through abrupt stalls, jerky starts and horrible grindings of gears. Dad’s arms bracing on the dash prior to a stop didn’t add to my confidence. (Seat belts were un-dreamed-of then.) I give him credit for this: he did try, though unsuccessfully, to disguise his terror.
To me, my beginning lessons seemed very short. “Time to head home,” he would announce with more animation than I had heard all afternoon.
“Aw, Dad, we just got here. Let me try that first-to-second gear thing one more time. I know I can do it this time. Please.” I would usually be granted another opportunity to coax the protesting floor-mounted shift lever from first to second.
“Be sure the clutch is ALL the way in!” Dad would yell as gears met in unintended ways.
After I got past tooth-rattling stops and screaming gear changes, we moved on to backing up, pretend parallel parking and signaling for turns and stops. For turns, all drivers relied on hand signals. (Steering-wheel turn signals came much later.) These were done by sticking one’s arm out of the open driver’s-side window, especially fun on sub-zero winter days or in heavy rainstorms. When the left arm was bent up 90 degrees it told the driver behind you, “I’m going to turn right.” Straight out; “I’m turning left, here,” and straight down, palm to the rear, “I’m going to stop now.”
When I had the basics more or less in place, Dad and I ventured onto the open road − Farm Lane, far south on campus near the railroad tracks where there were no buildings, no crossroads and very little traffic.
In my mind the southernmost railroad crossing will forever be synonymous with panic. One Sunday afternoon when we were inches from the tracks, Dad suddenly yelled, “Look out!” I slammed on the brakes, sending him sprawling. The engine stalled, of course. Squeezing my eyes shut, I braced for the impending crash, but nothing happened. Climbing back onto the seat, Dad, somewhat abashed, said, “There are some terrible bumps there.” Many years later, I often smiled as I crossed those tracks, slowing for the great-grandchildren of the old bumps. Now there are slick underpasses on Farm Lane. Where’s the excitement in that?
One pivotal day Dad and I ventured all the way to downtown East Lansing to practice for-real parallel parking. For this, timing was everything. You had to give plenty of warning to the person behind you. Tailgating was far less prevalent then. Drivers needed a lot of lead time because hand signals were much more difficult to see than today’s turn signals.
Consider: in a driving rainstorm you locate a parking space directly in front of The Mar-Jo Shop (ladies’ dresses). You crank the window open (no such thing as automatic windows then, either), stick out your left arm and point it down to indicate a stop. In the rear view mirror you see a rapidly approaching 1938 Oldsmobile. You wiggle your arm; pump it vigorously. Finally the driver rolls to a stop, having realized you are attempting to communicate.
Then comes the embarrassing business of getting parked. You have to back in (unless there are several vacancies and you can swoop in straight ahead.) Perilously close to the car parked on your right, you turn your steering wheel hard to the right and point the back of your car toward the space. You back at an angle until your left rear fender is about half a car’s width into the center of the space. Then you crank the wheel to the left and continue backing while making sure the front end of your car doesn’t hit the one in front and that you don’t slam into the one in back. If all goes well you straighten the wheel and settle into the space. If not, you have to start over, and the person driving the 1938 Oldsmobile is not at all happy with this decision.
Beginning drivers – even intermediate ones – often required several passes before they either succeeded or gave up. Parallel parking is identical today, except that drivers hardly ever need to do it. Streets where parking is in demand are too busy to allow cars to stop and wait for a driver to struggle into a space. Now off-street parking is the norm.
But, without question, the advanced degree in driving back then was the dreaded Starting Uphill. Automatic transmissions have simplified this operation, but in the days of separate clutch, brake and accelerator pedals, it was a challenge requiring a more relaxed teacher than my father ever could be. He had an irrational fear that a stall would cause us to plunge backward downhill like a runaway freight car, mindlessly crushing everything and everyone in our path.
To start on a hill required intense concentration. You made sure your feet were on the clutch and brake pedals, then you pushed the starter button and found low gear. At this point you turned your left foot so your toes were on the brake and your heel on the clutch. Next you moved your right foot to the accelerator and stepped on the gas. When you felt you had sufficient rpms (whatever those were), you eased off on the clutch and brake while increasing pressure on the accelerator. If all went well you went up the hill as planned. You had to keep up the momentum so the engine wouldn’t stall. I failed many times before earning this degree. My father added lots of gray to the fringe of hair above his ears.
Once I had my license our family had four drivers and one car. The neighbors used to tease us about constant runs in and out of the driveway. Our parents were very tolerant in accommodating our eagerness to drive.
As a teen I had my share of scrapes, once nearly taking out a telephone pole at the corner of Fern and Forest streets in East Lansing (I still smile when I pass that corner, too). Another time I had to have a late-night tow off the golf course at Walnut Hills (don’t ask).
At age 22 I married and moved to Los Angeles. Thanks to Dad, I was able to hone my killer driving instincts and manage quite well in the car-infested streets of that pre-freeway city.
Now, living again in my home town, I’ve forgiven Dad for the railroad crossing incident. Overall, he did a fine job. I consider myself a good driver, though a bit heavy on Los Angeles survival techniques.
If I get to heaven and find cars there, I’ll take Dad for a spin. But I’ll be searching out bumpy railroad crossings. Just for memory’s sake, I’d like shout “Look out!” at the exact moment tire meets track.
Then we both could smile.
