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Dad stopped the car in the middle of the road and said, “Wanna drive?”
“Really?” I answered in surprise.
He replied, “Why not? We have this road to ourselves.”
It was dawn, but the sun hadn’t risen yet. I was 13 years old, three years from being eligible for a driver’s license, and my Dad and I were going camping at a lake an hour north of Atlanta. We’d just turned off the state highway and were on the country road that would lead to the campground.
Dad Taught Me to Drive
I ran around the front of the car while Dad slid across the bench seat to the passenger side. I got behind the steering wheel and put my hands on it in the clock dial positions of 10 and 2. I then put the big LTD station wagon in drive and pressed the gas pedal. It was my first time driving. As we drove Dad gave me instructions on how to use the brake, the turn signals, and the headlight high beams.
It didn’t take long before I felt comfortable and I was holding the car steady on the long, straight narrow road that penetrated a deep dark forest. I got the car up to about 40 miles per hour and Dad said, “That’s fast enough.”
I continued driving for a few minutes when suddenly a herd of nine deer ran across the road right in front of me. I slammed my foot against the brake pedal causing the back tires to skid and squeal while the right front tire went off the road onto the shoulder. The car came to a complete halt, and I didn’t hit any of the deer, but I was shaking in fear.
Dad Taught Me to Face my Fear
Dad patted my shoulder and said, “You did good, but I guess we won’t be eating venison tonight; now you’ll definitely have to catch us some fish.”
I didn’t laugh, I was still shaking. I put the car in park, and said, “I’m done driving, you take over.”
Dad replied, “Take a few deep breaths. We’ll just sit here for a few minutes until you calm down, and then you can continue driving.”
“No Dad, I’m still scared. I don’t want to drive anymore.”
“That’s why you have to drive again now. If you don’t face your fear immediately, it will get worse and you may never be able to drive again. Take a few more deep breaths, and then we’ll start again real slow.”
I continued to complain that I was too scared to continue, but he kept pushing until I finally put the car back into drive. I drove very slowly, about 15 miles per hour at first. I tested the brakes several times and kept both hands locked on the steering wheel. Eventually, I increased the speed, but probably never topped 30 miles per hour.
Dad was right; I calmed down, and relaxed back into driving. I don’t remember much else from that camping trip except that it was our last one together. I’d been in Boy Scouts two years by then, and was camping monthly with my troop.
When I turned 15, I was eager to learn how to drive, so Dad taught me at the local mall on Sundays when it was closed and the parking lot was empty. He had me drive in the lanes between the lines drawn for parking spaces. Whenever I drove too close to the edge and the tires went over the painted lines, Dad would say, “Ow, you just hit that car!” Then he’d laugh, and I’d laugh, and then sometimes I’d intentionally run over another line, just to keep the laugh going.
Dad Taught Me Trust
Later on that year, as Mom and Dad were heading out the door for a post-Christmas vacation, Dad asked me, “How are you going to get to work?”
I replied, “It’s just two miles, I’ll ride my bike.”
“Your shift ends after dark, and it’s cold outside; here take the car.” He tossed me a set of car keys.
I caught them and replied, “Seriously?”
“You’ll be 16 in a week.”
“Wow; thanks, Dad!”
“Just to work and back; OK?”
“Sure, Dad!”
And, that’s all I did drive while they were gone. I knew plenty of kids who would’ve taken advantage of the opportunity and taken their parents’ car other places, but my father trusted me and I felt honored.
A few weeks before my twentieth birthday, Dad would take the Swine Flu vaccine of 1976. It caused a blood clot to block the vessels to his brain and he suffered a massive stroke. He was paralyzed on the right side of his body. He couldn’t walk, feed himself, or speak; he was only 51 years old.
Dad could no longer smile on the right side of his face, and as a right-hander he couldn’t write anymore. Remarkably, he learned to speak again after a few months of aphasia. He learned to write with his left hand; and with a firm brace on his right leg, and a cane in his left hand, he was able to walk again. Sadly, his intellect never recovered. He had been a smart, analytical, and humorous man, but now his mental capacity equaled that of a toddler. He could only communicate basic needs; his ability to comprehend anything abstract or complex was beyond him.
Over the next two years, while I was attending college, I would go home and have dinner with my family about once a month. Six months before my dad died, he started asking me to move home. I would tell him that I didn’t want to move home, that I enjoyed living in my apartment near campus, but he would ask me repeatedly every month. Then 30 days before my lease came up for renewal, my roommate announced that he was getting married and that I’d have to find another roommate. I was unable to find one before the end of the month, and I couldn’t afford the place on my own, so I moved home.
Dad Taught Me Honor
My dad’s condition deteriorated immediately upon my moving in, and he went into the hospital the next day. Four days later he was dead.
I deduced my dad had known for six months that he was ready to go, which explained why he kept asking me to move home. When he passed away so quickly after I moved in, I felt his message loud and clear: He wanted there to be a man in the house to take care of my mother and sister. I was honor bound to comply, and while I had originally intended to only live there for one month, I stayed 14 more until my mother became engaged to another man.
On Dad’s last day, as I sat on the edge of his bed holding his hand, his final words to me were, “Bobby, I want us to go camping again.”
I couldn’t understand why he said that. Didn’t he know that he was dying? And, even if he wasn’t, didn’t he know he’d been unable to do anything on his own for more than two years?
Dad Taught Me Love
It only recently dawned on me what he was trying to say to me that day, and it inspired me to write this post. Dad was never one to say I love you very often, but what I have finally been able to hear in his last words was that he did love me; and that he regretted not spending more time with me. And, 43 years later, I still miss his counsel, his humor, and his love.
