I’ve found that writing prompts are helpful for triggering memoirs. During a meeting with fellow writers someone suggested a one word prompt and we all wrote for ten minutes. The word was car.
Immediately my mind took me back to the year 1970. Unlike most teens, I did not look forward to driving. The thought of handling my parents’ full size 1968 Pontiac terrified me. After I passed the written test to receive my learner’s permit, Dad took me to a nearby cemetery to teach me how to drive. He was smart—I wouldn’t be able to damage anything unless the car crashed into a headstone.
I practiced with Dad every Saturday. He was not a patient teacher and we made each other nervous. During the first few lessons I did not take the wheel until we reached the cemetery grounds. Once I became more comfortable with turning, he let me drive the one mile distance home via Chambers Road.
I couldn’t see the point of driving because I didn’t have anywhere to go. We lived in the outskirts of Mansfield, Ohio. I rode the bus to school and my parents drove me to church or to visit friends. After high school I would need to drive to the branch campus of Ohio State. The thought of my parents driving me to college made me cringe.
By the time I was seventeen I took the driving test and passed. I couldn’t believe I parallel parked such a behemoth car. My confidence grew. Since the state of Ohio thought I could drive, surely I must be ready.
A few days later Dad let me take the car for a spin. I smiled and waved as I backed out of our driveway and entered Mercer Avenue. Although Dad wasn’t in the seat next to me, I thought I would be all right. I had driven this way many times before on our way to the cemetery. I stopped at the intersection to Chambers Road and and proceeded to turn right. Big mistake! I turned the wheel too far to the right and drove the car into a deep ditch.
“Oh no!” My hand shook and my heart pounded as I flipped on the emergency flashers. I gingerly pushed open the car door and climbed out. Once outside, I saw that most of the car was off the road. There were no cell phones in those days so I couldn’t call Dad. There were no other drivers on the road that I might wave down for help. I wasn’t far from home and decided to leave the car and walk home.
That short walk seemed to take forever. With each step I worried about what Dad might say. I was in so much trouble. What if the only car my family owned was damaged? He would be so angry. He might decide I was incapable of handling a vehicle. This could be the end of my driving career.
I could see our house in the distance. As I approached I saw Dad working outside in the yard. He saw me too, and came running toward me.
Tears rolled down my cheeks. “Dad, I’m so sorry. I put the car in the ditch!”
To my surprise Dad laughed and gave me a hug. “It’s O.K.— let’s get Jake to help.”
Jake was our helpful neighbor with a truck. He drove us back to the scene of the crash, attached a chain to the back of the car, and pulled it out of the ditch. No harm done. Whew! I felt so relieved. Although Dad drove the car home, he did let me drive the car by myself again. Now, over fifty years later I treasure the grace Dad showed me that day.
Eventually I drove to my first after-school job and saved enough money to buy a car of my own. My compact Dodge Rambler transported me to my college classes with no accidents.
A one word writing prompt can inspire a writer to revisit a time forgotten. What stories come to your mind when you think of the word car?
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