by Marla Finley DeSoto

I remember when we lived in the little house at 702 Bruce Street, and Uncle Dave Finley lived across the street from us.  One day, Dad decided to  teach Mom how to drive the family car.  Taking into consideration Mom's natural anxiety and dislike for automobiles, and Dad's perfectionist nature, there was little doubt that this would be an interesting lesson.  Mickie and I climbed into the back seat of the Dodge, and off we all went.  My memory of the actual driving lesson is hazy, but I'll never forget the parking lesson when we arrived back home.   Mom carefully steered the Dodge into the driveway, slowly easing into the tiny, one-car garage.  From the back seat, I peered over Dad's shoulder, watching and waiting for the car to come to a halt, signaling the end of the lesson and freedom.  Dad's voice coaxed, "A little more, little more, little more..." as the car inched forward.   "STOP!!"  he barked.  I jumped a little when he raised his voice, and Mom's foot must have slipped and hit the accelerator.   My eyes widened in disbelief as the car leaped forward and shot through the back wall of the garage as if launched from a slingshot.   I heard the loud crack of wood breaking  and the squeal of the tires as Mom jammed her foot on the brake.  The car jerked to a stop and came to rest with the hood nosed through the back wall of the garage and the front wheels resting in the dog kennel on the other side of the wall.  Mom wailed, "Ohh...Bill!!"  as she flung herself out the driver's side door and ran into the house, nearly flattening a neighbor boy who ran over and asked, "What happened? Anyone hurt?"  Mickie and I slowly climbed out of the back seat, knowing enough to keep our mouths shut and make ourselves scarce until the storm died down.  I think that was the most upset I've ever seen my Mom.  Later, Dad repaired the garage wall, and I don't recall any more driving lessons.  Mom did eventually get her driver's license, but I couldn't tell you how she finally learned to drive.