My mother taught me to drive. The first time I got behind the wheel was in our family minivan, on a July day shortly after I turned 15. She drove me and my sister out Hwy. 22 and then found a quiet gravel road near Olallie Lake. I switched seats with her, nervous but excited. There is a distinct quality to the light in western Oregon in July, and I remember its bright angle and the dust of the gravel road, the smell of ripening blackberries and the feel for the first time of being in control of a big machine. Nothing was ever the same after that. I was a driver.
That next year with my learner’s permit, I drove to school nearly every day. It wasn't far, barely a mile. But my mother let me drive the minivan through the neighborhood on her way to work. It was good practice, being alert for pedestrians and other cars dropping off other kids and learning to come to a full stop at four-way intersections. I had to pull precisely into the spot across the street from school so I could get out and my mother could switch over to the driver’s seat. I don't remember any conversations, not one, from those five-minute interactions. But imagine the patience it took, nearly every school day, to allow your daughter to make that short drive! Just so she could be in the practice of starting the car, backing out of the driveway, and making her way on city streets to school.
I drove the minivan to my driving test, which I failed the first time. It wasn't really my fault—I got the mean examiner, the one all my friends warned about. I failed automatically for not looking as though I was looking hard enough both ways at a railroad crossing. Those of you from Salem, Oregon know exactly where I'm talking about. You know, those railroad tracks near the strip club that, back then, always advertised in the classified section of the newspaper for 18+ dancers.
The examiner said nothing to me out on the road; she just had me drive immediately back to the DMV office. I didn't understand that I had failed. My mother did, though, and she was pissed. Not at me, at the examiner! My mother knew I was a good driver—after all, she had taught me to drive. She argued briefly with the examiner before seeing it was a lost cause. I retook the test in a few days with a different examiner, the nice one. I slowed and looked exaggeratedly both ways before driving over the railroad tracks. Things are even stricter now, and that's probably good. But in 1989, it was no big deal to get a license in Oregon, even after failing once.
Later, after I was more comfortable with the way a car handles, my mother taught me to drive a stick shift on a used car purchased from a family friend. It was a 1987 maroon Nissan Sentra, and eventually, my own car to drive. I loved it, even though at low speeds in, say, a parking lot, it took awhile to understand how much gas to give it. Until I figured it out, the car often bucked in low gears. Another family friend once saw me bucking my way through the Fred Meyer parking lot at low speeds, and reported back to my parents. No one is watching you. Everyone was watching you.
Sometimes even now, 20 years after I last owned a car with a manual transmission, I still imagine downshifting that Nissan around corners. I can remember the way the gearshift felt and the interplay of my feet on the clutch and the gas and the sensation against my back of the grey sheepskin seat covers that came with the car. How the engine sounded when it whined until it was time to shift. I taught my sister to drive a stick shift. No one in America drives them anymore.
There were rules for that first car. They began with: Driving is a privilege, not a right. Mostly, I had to agree to drive my sister around where she needed to go. Once, my final year in high school, I was allowed to drive some friends to a basketball game in Portland at night. There were no restrictions against a bunch of teens in the car at night back then. Before giving his daughter permission to go with me, one of my friends' fathers called my mother to ask what sort of driver I was. She proudly told him that she felt very safe with me driving anywhere. I have never forgotten that.
In my early 20s, I'd sometimes call my mother when I was low on cash, and she'd go to the bank to deposit money in my account so I had gas money to go where I needed or wanted to go. I now live in a walkable neighborhood and happily choose to do most errands on foot, but you all know I love a long road trip. And I never minded parallel parking in Washington, D.C.
I have done dumb things in cars. I've crashed a few at inopportune times, gotten stuck in the mud and snow in remote places, and driven too fast on rural roads. One time while driving an ex-boyfriend's fancy convertible to a work lunch, I got nervous about backing it out of a tight spot. I'm still embarrassed that my colleague, Steve, had to do it for me. There is a car wash here in Portland that has a very tight left turn to get into it so that your tires are just so on the tracks, and it always makes me a little anxious. I rarely take the I-5 bridge in Portland coming from the south because I hate merging right toward my exit on a curve high above the Willamette River—I'm not afraid of heights but it's such awful road design. As bad as suburban stroads and slip lanes. My mother hated that bridge, too.
I don't always think of my mother when I get in the car, but I almost always do when I come home from a long journey. There’s that pause before exiting. The engine ticks as it cools. The cabin is quiet with the radio off. Then, I remember the safety I felt as a child returning home with my mother behind the wheel, and what she gave me when she taught me to drive.
Yours,
Erika
THE NEWS
All the links…
I love highlighting cool things made by Friends of The Windfall Dispatch, so much so that I’m making it a standing feature in the news links. Feel free to send me your FOTWD recommendations!
This week’s FOTWD recommendation is the documentary Sam Now by Portland filmmaker Reed Harkness. It’s now available to stream for free on PBS Independent Lens. This is such a beautiful memoir on film.
What’s happening to all the Northwest Art collected by Paul Allen?
NIMBY versus YIMBY All about the struggle to end the monopoly of single-family zoning, this time set in Arlington, Virginia. Portland is probably the best example of the possibilities and peril — I say this as someone who writes about housing quite a bit AND as someone who lives in a single-family home with an ADU next to active multifamily construction.
Cowboy Camp I’ve barely watched an episode, but I find the Yellowstone television franchise endlessly fascinating for its impact on the West. This WSJ story details how much money goes to creator Taylor Sheridan, including his ranch and his livestock. Cowboy Camp sounds way more fun than the “cowboy camp” of the show.
Dupe! Lululemon takes on dupes—affordable facsimiles of luxury goods—with a Los Angeles giveaway. (This is your semi-regular link to another standing feature: Stories about yoga pants.)