Southern Idaho 1960's
Byline: June Bridger (One of my many aliases)
We lived about
500 yards from the old church. From the first snow until late spring we drove
to church. Seems a bit silly now with gas prices well over $3.00 a gallon but
my parents had their reasons; a passel of children as in too many to put in
seatbelts the youngest barely toddling, cold as in below freezing temps, and
dirt roads that were muddy until well into May and then the spring showers came
so well, we usually drove.
Of course as we
girls approached our teen years we were notoriously late getting ready. It
wasn't because of the boys at church; we were related to most of them, the nice
looking ones anyway. Who knows why we were always late, the church had a
restroom fit for a queen with a mirror covering one wall. I know, I used to
wonder how it would break after breaking the one at home. {Cringe}
If you are a
churchgoer out in the farming community the fact is that church is your one
time each week which affords adults to relate to adults on an adult level
without the notorious party-line. Lest you think the women have a corner on
this verbal frat party, I share this, my first--very first driving lesson.
Picture a
beautiful spring day. It hasn't rained for weeks so the roads are dry, thus
most of the family has walked home, including Mom with the younger children. I
approach Dad. He is deep in discussion as to how crops are doing without the crop
needed rains.
"Dad,
um…" I don't stutter, but I think I did that day. "Can we go
now?"
Dad hands me the
keys with, "You take the car home. I'll walk."
I'm not sure if
he forgot which kid I was or maybe how old I was (at the time I was eleven.)
Maybe he figured I was like my older brothers, who were both driving tractors
since they could reach the pedals.
"Daaaad."
You know that sing-song-y voice a kid uses to convey anything from begging to
horror? That's the one I used and somehow it got lost in translation 'cause I
clearly recall my white knuckles as I peered over the steering wheel, my heel,
all inch and a half of it, caught under the gas pedal. I honestly don't
remember the drive, just the screaming of tires as I pulled into the yard, and
the slamming on the brakes with both shoeless feet in order to stop before I
hit the 500 gallon gas tank. Not sure I even put it in "park."
[s1]Good
Old Days 6/18/14
