Lord, we arrived here fast.
It started with mini-cars. Then toy tractors, plastic lawn cars and hand-in-hand walks to see the semis parked down the street. We knew he’d be driving for real one day.
At eight or nine, he sat on our couch. His grandfather’s tablet passed between us. “Nana! Turn the other way! The OTHER WAY!” Benjamin’s voice lifted a few decibels. A second later my green racing car crashed and burned on the edge of the digital racing track.
He hooted. Snatched the tablet back. “Nana. You crashed AGAIN. How come you can’t steer right?”
“I can steer right,” I said. “It’s left I can’t manage.” He grimaced.
At the time, he and his family lived only about three hundred steps from the Preacher and me. Whenever he wished, he motored over on his bike, stunting all the way. “Benjamin, don’t do that! It’s hard on the tires. And it’s a bad habit. Dangerous if you were driving a car.”
He grinned, made a deliberate skid and looked back at the mark on the gravel. “WOW! Did ‘ya see that one, Nana?”
I saw. I dreaded. I also paid close attention to the way he drove his grandfather’s three-wheeled mobility scooter. All over our large yard, down the road and back into the driveway (on two wheels). I’m sure he and his younger sister robbed that elderly Triumph of at least a year of life.
The lawn tractor we shared with his folks followed. “You can drive it when you can reach the brake,” we’d told him. Every spring he climbed on. Almost laying prone, he stretched for the brake. We barely mowed our lawns after he reached it. I’ve never seen a John Deere lawn tractor move so quickly.
He got his learner’s license at fifteen. Throughout most of the pandemic, several times a week I picked him up for his part-time job and my full-time one in the city, just over a half hour away. Our hours meshed well, and I usually let him drive home. Sometimes we even stopped for ice cream or burgers.
I’m a decent driver. But like other parts of me, my driving habits have grown flabby in the almost five decades since my own driving lessons. Benjamin didn’t hesitate to set me straight when I had the wheel.
Accepting driving advice from a fifteen-year old humbles one. Most often, I simply thanked him for the reminder, but I had to bite my tongue sometimes. “I hope you remember all these things when you’re driving alone,” I told him one day, piqued that he’d called me on my less than three second full stop. Again.
But I’m a better driver for the fresh perspective. I’ve told him so.
It took two tries, but he got his licence at barely sixteen. Shortly after, a white hatchback pulled into our driveway. Benjamin slipped from behind the wheel. “Wanna go for a drive, Nana?” He’d bought and paid for the car with his own money, he told me.
It seems my free driving lessons are over. He’ll take himself to work most days now. I’ll miss him.
Lord Jesus, hold onto that young man on all the roads ahead. And…thanks. Not every grandmother is so blessed.
