Boy, you are going to drive your father to an early grave

A Father's Day remembrance of driving school with the Master Sergeant

When I turned 15-years, and seven months old, the Master Sergeant said, “It’s time you learned to drive.” He said it the same way he said, “David, it’s time you learned to swim.”

That turned out well. For the lifeguard.

“We’re going out to the Flight Line. Great place to learn how to drive.”

“You sure about this?”

No dad has ever heard, “You sure about this?” from his kid and thought, “Perhaps I’m not sure. Why, yes, I shall reconsider the wisdom of this choice.”

Instead, 1971’s Father of the Year said, “The airfield is perfect. It’s just a big parking lot. Sunday morning, it’s dead.”

Note, dear readers, the airfield we’re discussing is the tarmac at Davis-Monthan Air Force Base. The runways used by the Strategic Air Command. The one used by B-52 bombers at the time. The one used by jet pilots.

As he drove us there I asked him how he learned to drive.

“Taught myself. When I was 14 I stole a Model T.”

Throughout his life I asked my father for cash, for loans, for signatures, forgiveness, the keys to a car, help with my education and advice about the plumbing. My greatest regret? I didn’t ask him for more stories.

“It was a stupid thing to do. Drove it off a country bridge in North Carolina and hitchhiked home. Did I tell you about the time I stole money from the poor box to take the ferry out over the East river to Potter’s Field, to visit your grandfather’s grave? I missed the ferry back and spent the entire night on the island cemetery. Hand me my Marlboros.”

“You told me that one many times, pop. The best scary bedtime story ever.”

“That driver behind us is tailgating. Give him that finger thing you kids do.”

We had arrived. It was time to get out and switch seats. I slid into the driver’s seat of his pride and joy, a sun-bleached 1854 Ford Falcon, photographed by Matthew Brady from Popular Muskets and Mechanics. The old man kept it running with prayer, a plastic Jesus, a rosary, a St. Christopher medal swinging from the rearview mirror, a Chilton manual in the glove compartment, a pair of pliers, assorted wires, duct tape and spit.

“Why can’t I learn to drive in our neighborhood like everybody else?”

He pointed to the flat empty horizon beyond the security fence with the signs that said “KEEP OUT” with his lit Marlboro, flicking lit ashes on my husky boy courduroys. “Because nowhere’s safer. When I taught your sister to drive my old Pontiac, may she rest in peace, ended up in the flower pots on Mr. Goldberg’s front porch. I’m not going through that again. Ignore that fellow waving by the gate. Head over to that air raid siren. And don’t hit it.”

I crept along wondering when our incursion would be discovered. He flicked another ash out his window, drew a solid draw and shouted, “Floor it, Buck Rogers. You can go faster than 15-miles an hour.”

I’m pissing my pants, I’m flying an ancient rattle trap and Chuck Yeager is my copilot. He turned the half-melted plastic leaning Jesus on his dashboard around so He could lean into “our headwinds, Glory be to God. Hail Mary full of torque!”

“This isn’t an X-15 I’m driving here dad.”

The steering wheel had a lot of play in it. I’d spin it to the left and on the same day the front wheels would eventually turn left. The bumper boats at the county fair were more responsive. The car lurched and coughed and knocked and pinged. “What’s that pinging sound, pop?”

“That’s your sonar. Pay no mind. Stop up here at the stop sign with the word ‘STOP’ on it.”

Yes sir. The brakes squeaked loud enough to attract cats from all over the base to gather at the perimeter of the field. “Are car brakes supposed to make that sound, pop?”

“Uh huh.”

“Are you sure?”

“It’s nothing! You are such a worry wart. And the exhaust? Ignore that. It’s supposed to blow big white clouds out the back. It’s a James Bond smoke screen. Cool secret agent car, huh?”

I looked at the crappy radio speaker. “Eyes on the road, Mario Andretti! My car. My music.”

“Pop, can I change the music to rock and roll?”

“No! Percy Faith calms my nerves. Don’t you mind the music. Just drive. Hands at 9 and 3. Or is it 10 and 2? Check your mirror. Check your side view. Eye’s straight ahead! Stay between the big white lines.”

“Aren’t those the lines the B-52 pilots use when they’re…”

“What are you, ‘Mister Twenty Questions’? Do you want to learn to drive or not?”

“Hey, pop, there’s a blue pick up truck behind us that looks very official. And its lights are flashing.”

The Master Sergeant looked behind us and threw his butt down hard out the window. “Dammit! Hit the brakes.” I hit the brakes and we sprayed brake fluid on the runway and skidded nearly to Sierra Vista. “Nice job, boy,” said the Master Sergeant.

The official vehicle with flashing cherries and the words “Military Police” on it stopped directly behind us and an armed soldier with the letters “MP” on his helmet and sleeve approached our vehicle.

The “Greatest Generation” gave me his best very serious General Patton look. “Don’t you start crying like a girl. And no jokes this time. I got this.”

Good call. Years later I’m glad I didn’t cry like a girl or confess we were sent by Nikita or Mao or Boris and Natasha to photograph their military installations. I didn’t even say, “Is this the way to the ‘Boneyard’?”

The smooth talking Master Sergeant got us home in time for the Ed Sullivan show. He bragged about the incident every time he had a cold beer in his hand. “Should have seen the MP’s face when he found out I was an NCO. And you should have seen little Dave here. I thought sure our girly man was going to wet his pants. Hahahahahahaha.”

The lessons I learned from that experience have stayed with me for more than half a century: It’s always far better to try something daring and apologize afterwards, than to have never tried.

And if you’re offered a choice between being “a real man” by learning to drive your old man’s Ford Falcon with him next to you or being a “pasty white momma’s boy” by staying at home and watching a “Sons of Hercules” movie on “Swords and Spears” on channel 4 on the Magnavox while drinking Nestle’s chocolate milk and eating Moonpies, go with your dad.

I was tasked with sorting his possessions after we buried him. We sold his car, sis got his flag, Don and Bob got his shirts and shoes and I got his tools, the very tools he used to keep my hapless junkers, beaters and rattle traps running through summer jobs, road trips and a college graduation. I treasure them.

I spent a lot of my childhood in our carport on my back under that Ford Falcon handing him those tools as he tinkered and cursed. In return, he gave me useful tools for living in the form of sage wisdom: “Takes a dollar to earn a dollar. And use Comet to get that oil off your face.”

“All the best junkyards are south of 22nd Street.”

“Any jackass can kick down a barn. Takes a man to build one. And ‘jackass’ is an acceptable curse word except in front of your mother.”

Sorting the last of his possessions we discovered Dad’s most precious treasures in the top drawer of his bureau: his spare shoelaces, his toe nail clipper, his keys to forgotten locks, his Bible, pictures of his sweetheart who I am happy to say was also my Mom, old credit cards, war medals (He claimed he killed Hitler), too many scratched reader’s eyeglasses, busted lighters and our ancient disgusting baby teeth wrapped in a very old and equally suspect handkerchief. Behind that treasure trove we found every misspelled handmade Father’s Day card he had ever gotten from all of us, neatly stacked.

“Hapy Farter’s Day! Hah Ha Ha!”

“Happie Dad’s Day!”

“Thanks, Dad. You’re 1 In A Bazillion.”

“Best Dad Everr.”

“I love YOU pop.”

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