I was remembering teaching my mother to drive today and thought I’d write about it here. I’ve decided it will be too long, so I’ll write it up as either a short story or an article. I may write a poem about it sometime.
I was 19 years old and she was 43 when my mother remarked that she wished she could drive a car. “Well, why can’t you?” I asked.
I knew she had polio as a very young child and one of her legs was crippled and she had trouble walking on it. She said she could not use her right foot to drive. And she didn’t know if anyone could teach her.
Well, I could. And her left foot worked just fine.
It took six months once she’d gotten her permit to get her driver’s license. There were no seat belts back then, and I just braced myself as she learned to steer. She’d never ridden a bicycle, so she had no practice steering anything.
But she finally got her license after failing the driving test and coming back to “practice” with me some more before she went and tried again. We were both very proud when the examiner finally, finally said she’d passed.