Chalk one up for us fledlging geezers. Gen-Xers and you other hyphenated inheritors of societal labels, take note: You can’t teach youngsters driving safety skills from Grand Theft Auto and other video games.
I initially learned mine from my Dad while heading down that mirage-glistening road to Folsomville to family get-togethers in the early ‘60s. With his foot comfortably stomped on the pedal at 60, occasionally he’d let me and my brother and, in years later my sister, take the steering wheel of that family car. Learned fast eye-to-hand coordination that no computer game -- not even Grand Theft Auto -- could ever teach. Especially with a nervous, screaming Mom riding shotgun.
You’ll kill us all, Buck!
It never happened, happy to report. Mom would have killed us all if it had. Too much worry there. If you weren’t helping at the wheel in our car, you were busy hopping around in the back seat, sans seatbelts.
Years later, early in my high school sophomore year, me and my classmates took our seats in driver’s education, which was once offered at a nominal cost. Such a class is rarely part of most high schools’ curricula. Today, parents shell out righteous bucks to teach their progeny the rules of the road leading to the coveted Indiana operators’ licenses.
At good, ol’ Central High School we had three driver’s ed teachers: The peace-loving boys golf coach and a gruff but loveable assistant varsity gridiron guru. And, of course, Mr. Ivor Morrison, the patrician, white-maned instructor. The most-respected and feared member of the school’s teaching cadre. It was rumored he coached Ben-Hur at his chariot showdown.
Lodged confidently in the front passenger’s seat, the Grandmaster would calmly direct you to traffic patterns on city routes; occasionally take you to freeways where you could punch up the accelerator ever so gradually.
But the moment would come
Whaddya’ doin’ dummy!!!! Tryin’ to kill me before I get my pension! Switch that lane smoother and check those damn rear view mirrors, for Christ’s sake! You haven’t been readin’ that manual! All that criticism after less than 20 seconds while merging onto a two-lane.
After a few minutes on the road he would find a safe place to pull over and change drivers. If it was a female – and no sexism intended here – the instructive words took on a different tone.
Turned the wrong direction signal on? No sweat, these things take time. Why good question that “R” on the shifter means reverse. So, back up when you do that, please! Oh, sweetie, you’re doing just fine! Then he’d turn around and look at his backseat crew. You knuckleheads in the back best pay attention to what this excellent driver on how it should be done!
Teaching is such a subjective profession. Most of us got our licenses without incident.
But I took away a few lessons from his instructions: how to turn out of icy slides, keeping your cool if you blew a tire and getting to the shoulder. And for God’s sake – never screaming orders to the person at the wheel.
I have a nephew who has just entered this proverbial rite-of-passage. And my oldest grandson Justin is not too far away from this important education.
Texting and cell phones are the real hazards these days. In my time, it was changing the Edgar Winter and Led Zeppelin 8-track tapes. With any generation of drivers, the ultimate enemy is self-stupidity (by goofiness or distraction) or the misfortune of being victim to someone else’s stupidity.
In the end, thank you Mr. Morrison. You probably saved more lives and heartache than any other high school teacher I ever had.
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