Rules of the road

TeenGuy wants to get his driver's license. To do this, he has to learn to drive. Also, he needs to know the rules of the road. I've brought home the Oklahoma driving manual twice during the summer. It sits on the buffet table, looking sad and unused. My son seems to think that getting behind the wheel of the car a couple times a week, hugging the curb, and coming to a full stop at the stop sign is enough knowledge to pass a driving test. Think again, mister. When I imagine him hitting an ice patch during the first winter storm, I shudder.

I've been taking him out when I can, and the last time, SO went with us. He told me I'm too hard on the kid -- honestly, I didn't mean to be. I sort of screamed when he veered into the left lane while making a turn. I was only playing, but my kind of teasing is probably more appropriate for my peers.

I remember learning to drive. It was terrifying. My dad was really critical with my hesitant technique and I was scared to death being in control of a 2-ton solid steel station wagon. But I persevered. I prepared.

I passed the written test with ease, but during the driving part, the state trooper in the car with me nearly jumped out of his seat when I veered to close to a parked car along a narrow neighborhood street.

"Watch the side mirrors! Watch the side mirrors!" I think he broke into a sweat. And then he failed me. The next time, I did much better and left the building with a license to drive. Ahhh, teenage milestones.

Another diary entry:

Jan. 8, 1975. Boy, are my parents mean. They would not go to the library for fear we would be late for church! Dum, right?

Even then, I was a library junkie.

That same day, a year later:

I played with Bruce & Jason [neighborhood boys who lived down the block from us]: "Slaves." Then we played "Bigfoot" and "Time Travel." Then I watched "Nashville remembers Elvis on his birthday." Today was Elvis' birthday. He would be 43. The first birthday without him. It was sad.

I wish I could remember what the game of "Slaves" was like. I'm sure it wasn't politically correct.

Bike freedom

Nothing takes me back to my childhood more instantly than a bike ride. Last summer my bike had a warped rim and a flat and we never got around to fixing it. This summer, I set a goal to get that thing fixed. And SO, God bless him, got around to it this week. And so, tonight we took an exhilarating ride along the east shore of the lake.

Lots of people were out and about. I saw a scissortail flycatcher and a poor old mama dog. (I hate seeing strays. I want to rescue them but am stopped by the thought of SO's face. He only just tolerates the dog we've got.) I tried to hang back with Sport, who has a much smaller bike and shorter legs, but I couldn't do it. Soon I was racing Lego for the lead. I let him win. Got to give him a little confidence. (Umm, okay, I didn't "let" him.)

My first capitalistic enterprise involved a bike. Mine was ancient and blue, with a kind of metal flap on the back one might use to secure a notebook. It was a perfect perch for a passenger. One Saturday, I took that bike ("Old Blue" as I creatively called it) up to an apartment complex and started charging kids for a trip around the facilities. My memory is a penny a ride. It might have been a nickel. Anyway, I wasn't going to get rich off of it and I only had a single customer -- a little red-headed girl with a bank full of change. Eventually, the apartment manager chased me off, but I was a quarter richer, so take that old man!

Like most every kid, I thought I was something special on that bike. In my mind, I could do any trick in the book: no hands, side saddle, legs on the handlebars, balance on the bike seat with legs splayed, heck, I could stand on that seat while the thing was in motion if pressed. Whether or not I could really do those things was beside the point. I believed I could do them, therefore, I was amazing. I would win any bike rodeo (yes, we had bike rodeos in those days) if only I deigned to compete (which I didn't do, because I didn't need a trophy or a blue ribbon to prove my point). I was that good.

Old Blue and I went everywhere. We explored "The Trails" (an undeveloped subdivision), the "Gravel Pit" (a gravel pit) and the ruins (abandoned pool where some kid was rumored to have died by breaking his neck after jumping off the diving board). I knew every nook and cranny of the neighborhood sidewalks, each bumpy and gravelly part of the street. That bike gave me absolute freedom, or the illusion of freedom.

I'd give anything to have Old Blue back. (It would also be nice to be about 30 years younger.)

Sounds of childhood

What sounds do you most associate with your childhood? This was a question asked in a book I'm currently reading, The human voice: how this extraordinary instrument reveals essential clues about who we are, by Anne Karpf. I had to sit for a minute and really scour my memories, but I came up with three.

Sound #1: the click click of the car blinker. My father would turn it on, signalling we were making a right hand turn onto our street. Late at night, we'd be returning from a church event after ingesting casseroles heavy with butter and cream of mushroom soup. If we weren't fighting over who got to "ride shotgun", we were dozing in the backseat of the car. Unfettered by seatbelts, we kids would barely register the drive home. When we heard that blinker go on, we knew it wouldn't be long before we'd be snuggled in our beds, safe and sound.

Sound #2: the drone of the air conditioner. After a hot and humid day at elementary school, I'd walk home and stretch out on our black Naugahyde couch. I loved to press my cheek into the cold plastic, watch a rerun of Gilligan's Island, and just veg. The air conditioner nearby made a comforting "ummmmmmmm" as I relaxed, one hand tracing lines into the carpet.

Sound #3: the musical tones of Yellow Submarine, played on the organ. Saturday mornings, around 11:30, my mother would flip the power switch of her electric organ, pull out her stack of sheet music, and climb onto the bench. She'd punch in a rock and roll setting (complete with drums), slip out of her shoes, and start working the foot pedals. Soon the strains of her favorite Beatles song would waft through the house. My sister and I shared a bedroom, one wall of which butted up against the back of the organ. And every Saturday morning, without fail, we would wake up to the tune of Yellow Submarine. It was impossible to ignore. Mom cranked up the volume as high as it would go. It was her special way of waking us up when she thought we'd been in bed too long.

What sounds connect you to powerful childhood memories?