Driving Lessons. Full stop.

Driving lessons. A nice term, isn’t it.

Too bad it isn’t much applicable where we here are concerned.

A driving lesson is my name for when dad tires of driving, pulls over suddenly and demands that I drive home.

Driving lessons are symphonies beginning with the screech of tires, and the van lurching as I confuse the break with the accelerator –over, and over again.

The symphony ends with a gradual relaxing of Dad’s heavy breathing.

A driving lesson is a term we have adapted for our use. And it isn’t a studious term.

A driving lesson is an adventure ride. You never know when fate will have you crash.

Or when your foot adopts a mind of its own from too much strain, having the potentially fatal consequence of mistaking one pedal for its extreme other.

Dad’s mental stability depends on our comprehension of driving.

For example when going down a particularly steep road, I end up seeing evidence that there is a limit to Dad’s mental capacity.

First, Dad reaches up his arm slowly and then more hurriedly as it comes nearer the handle near his seat.

Then his fist tightens and the knuckles in his hands fist turn red then quickly whiten, there is a pale shade of some colour I have not seen before.

And if perchance this hill is very steep or I am going a little fast the same colour change happens to Dad’s face. That’s when I think that maybe I am stepping on the wrong pedal. I wonder why Dad hasn’t noticed, wouldn’t he say something if he had?

And that’s just when Dad shouts (and it’s a gut-wrenching shout), “Hit the brake!”

And of course my inner reply is this: “Hit the brake. Ok. Oh God which one is the brake?”

That’s when Dad shouts, “Not the accelerator, the brake, the one on your left!”

Just in time, again.

But all is well that ends well. And all is well that doesn’t end in injury, that’s what I say.