Musings by Regena Handy
It’s a bit obscene to me the huge amount of money made by a small percentage of the population. Included in this number are professional athletes, performers, etc. who make their living by entertaining.
I am about to tell you who, in my opinion, deserves the highest of salaries. It should go to the bravest person in the world. And just who might that person be, you may be wondering?
The bravest person in the world is the driver’s education teacher.
Some of you folks may have learned to drive on the farm tractor. Or by steering the logging truck on the back roads, which is how I imagine my older brother learned. Lots of people learned to drive in a similar manner as illustrated by a funny recollection from my youth.
Though we were several years away from the legal age to drive, a boy shared in class a story about his driving experiences. Our teacher pointed out that he was too young for a license. His reply was that you didn’t need a license to drive on pig-paths.
I learned to drive mainly due to efforts of my brother and my boyfriend (now my husband). Really can’t recall my dad offering his assistance. My father was afraid of few things, but I honestly had the feeling he was terrified of riding with me. I don’t remember him doing so until his illness seven years later when I drove him to Roanoke for chemo treatments.
Most likely I didn’t appreciate his feelings. Not until I began that rite of passage with our own sons. My niece very recently shared a wise observation regarding parenthood and “the grace we extend once we ourselves are in the trenches of parenting.” Such a beautiful interpretation of how things always look different when ‘the shoe is on the other foot’.
I’m just going to be blunt. I was the world’s worst mother when the boys drove. I constantly issued verbal directions. Move over, you’re near the pavement edge. Or you’re too close to the center line; you are going to hit someone. There is a stop sign ahead. You are going too fast. (Don’t recall having to chastise them for going too slow.)
I would grab the door handle with a death grip. Whatever car graveyard those vehicles eventually ended up in, my fingerprints can probably still be found on the upholstery. I would gasp—loudly! Naturally, all this did nothing to help the boys but simply served as a distraction and likely made them nervous.
To sum up my feelings, I’ll share what a friend said when teaching her own children to drive. “I do believe it’s the worst thing I’ve ever had to do in my life,” she said.
So the next time you see a driving instructor, give him or her a warm pat on the back. They well deserve it. I personally would not have their job for love or money.
