The Saturday Journal: First Car. First Job and a Grandpa who Taught me to Drive a Straight.

I saw you today–your head hung down–in the parking lot of the fast food restaurant–your broom in one hand, one of those fancy dustpans in the other.  

I was you–many years ago. Hardees. I reported to work early before the restaurant opened--it was my first day on the job.  That was before the days of serving breakfast, when fast food restaurants only opened for lunch and supper. After I got checked in–signed up for payroll–the manager sent me outside to sweep up the trash in the parking lot.  I hated every minute of it.  

What if someone saw me–one of my classmates??!! For heaven’s sake, I was a high school athlete–I couldn’t be seen sweeping a parking lot on a Saturday morning.

I was foolish for thinking this way. 

When my sixteenth birthday rolled around, my Mama gave me a choice.  I could have her old ‘64 Carolina blue Ford Fairlane or she would buy me a sewing machine.  I chose the sewing machine because at the time I was learning to sew–making clothes and all. And her old Ford Fairlane had four on the column–I didn’t have a clue how to change those gears and didn’t want to learn.  I would buy my own car.

Now to some this may have seemed like a crazy decision on my part.  Looking back it probably was–I’ll blame it on the “sometimes not so smart decisions” a teenager can make.  I did enjoy sewing on my new sewing machine though–still do. 

So then Daddy set out to find me a car.  And he came home with this olive green Volkswagen Beetle–’68 model–headers and all. And ironically it was a straight drive–four on the floor–and with this car came the gift of a bank payment book.  If you are not familiar with these so-called "bank books"–they were like coupon books and each month you would take your coupon book to the bank to pay your payment. The teller would tear out the payment slip--"coupon" and stamp paid on the nub in the book and write the date in which you paid your payment. Then she would hand you back the book and say a polite thank you--see you next month.

My car cost $1500 dollars and my payments were $47 dollars and some odd change–thus the ultimate reason for sweeping parking lots on Saturday mornings, slinging burgers, and working fast food during the summers. 

Now when Daddy brought my car home, I didn’t immediately hop in–drive to town. I had to learn to drive this little car.  And let’s just say, some days my Daddy’s patience was about as thin as a Moravian sugar cookie.  And our driveway wasn’t any help to me because as soon as I backed out of our driveway onto the road, I was on an incline.  So for those of you who can drive a straight–you know how hard it is with one foot on the clutch, the other on the gas pedal and trying to hit the brake if needed--all at the same time, without the motor going dead--especially on a hill. It is a skill not easily learned. 

I could drive, don’t get me wrong. I’d been driving since I was twelve–my Grandpa Lackey would let us kids drive his ole Dodge Monaco up and down our road. The deal was though, I couldn’t drive my Bug to town or school until I could conquer the hill. And it was my Grandpa who I turned to after Daddy had had all the fun he could stand as my drivers’ ed teacher. Not that my Grandpa had lots of patience either–but I asked, and he said yes. 

It wasn't too many days afterwards, with my Grandpa in the passenger seat, that I finally made it out of the driveway and up the hill and then off to town we went to conquer Roller Coaster Hill in North Wilkesboro. I jerked the gears a few times when we came to a stop on Roller Coaster Hill–my Grandpa held on–and hallelujah--praise the Lord--I didn’t let the engine die or worse--roll backwards down the hill. The next day I drove the little green Bug to school. 

Speaking of holding on–another story of me and my Grandpa and the Beetle–remember, I said earlier it had headers and I didn’t know until later, but the man who sold my Daddy the Volkswagen suggested he take them off. Speed is the result of headers, if you don’t know.  

My Grandpa and I were going to town a few months later--traveling down Cheek's Hill on Highway 268 East. Have you ever thought about road names and how they are one of the many beauties of rural areas? Roads and streets aren't necessarily known by their signs they display--locals know them by other names–like Roller Coaster Hill, which is really an extension of 10th Street in North Wilkesboro (I believe) and Cheek’s Hill got its name from a place of business.

Anyway, my Grandpa and I were going down Cheek’s Hill and I wanted to show him what the headers would do on this little machine and we got up to about 65 mph going downhill and my Grandpa grabbed ahold of the handlebar on the dashboard and told me in no uncertain terms to slow down.  And then he said, ‘I’d rather ride on a good goat than ride in this thing!’ 

I can still see him doing this and still hear his voice. And I still laugh. Every. Single. Time. 

I had other adventures in my first car too–running out of gas fifty yards away from the gas pumps at Earl’s store. That was a fast fix–pushing works wonders. And another time when it wasn’t such an easy fix–when I ran out of gas at home and used Daddy’s kerosene can instead of the gas can. In my defense–they looked the same.  The kerosene did get me to the store–less than a half mile away.  Then a few days later--to the mechanic.

And sometimes I drove too fast–again foolishness–but thank the good Lord for protection--like this one time when I wrecked on Highway 421. It was not because of speed though. I was in the merging lane and this older lady hit me on the driver’s side close to the back bumper.  I spun out of the road and came to a stop in the grass. No injuries and only minimal damage to my car–none to hers. She told the police officer I pulled out in front of her.  I did not. But I took the blame. And after she drove away, I told the officer my side of the story. Neither of us received a ticket, once again--thanking the good Lord.  And the officer and I stood on the side of the road–pulled the bumper the rest of the way off and threw it in my back seat. The VW was heading to the garage, again.

During the winter months, especially after Christmas I like to reread some of my favorite books.  And a few weeks ago during the winter storm, I dusted off The Longest Winter by Laura Ingalls Wilder.  Yes, I read these books every so often–they remind me to be more grateful for today–for the right now. And to be reminded of the strength and courage of those in our past.

Laura shared the story of her and Almanzo and others riding in circles around their town in the snow in their horse-drawn sleds–her story reminded me of my younger days when we would get into our cars with our friends and ride in circular carlines around the Pizza Parlor, Sky City, Jack’s Drive-In, to name a few. Just riding around–with friends in our cars--stopping to talk to old friends and make new friends.

I miss those days–speeding down the road in an olive green Volkswagen with my Grandpa holding on–Daddy fussing at me for not knowing the difference between kerosene and gas–and riding around in circles with friends. Each one had a part in teaching me the joys of growing up and often times--life's hard lessons.

And young man, I don’t know your story–why you are working–you may have a car payment–paying for college–helping with your family’s finances–or saving for something big. But what I want to share with you is this–enjoy these days–your days--we all make foolish decisions sometimes–give yourself grace--learn from others and know your teenage years will pass quicker than you can ever imagine.  And the next time you have to sweep the parking lot–hold your head high–you are doing good work. 

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We spend our years as a tale that is told.

Psalm 90:9

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All photos @copyright Tathel Miller, unless otherwise credited to another photographer