Hugh got his driver’s license yesterday!  Third time’s a charm.

I will spare you the details of the long, tedious wait next to the litter-filled scrubby hillside behind a grocery store, which is where cars line up for the test drive.  The wait is usually an hour, so bring entertainment.

I will also spare you the details of the long, tedious wait inside the building for the photo and documentation.  Let’s just say that I have renewed sympathy for all Kafka characters caught up in nightmarish Russian bureaucracy.

Instead, today’s post features three short stories about driving.

1.  My brother Tom called me in early January from his Colorado cabin.  He reported on his family’s outing to the ski slopes, in which his wife and teenage daughters had gone off on one ski lift, and Tom and his kindegarten son Griffin had gone in another direction.  “We got to the top of the slope and started down, but then Griffin’s boots hurt, so I readjusted them.  We got a little farther down when he realized he was hungry.  Then he had to go to the bathroom and started crying, so I ended up taking his skis off, putting him under one arm, the skis under the other, and skiing us both back down to the lodge.”

My response was “Hey, my son went skiing today too.  His friend drove over early in the morning, Hugh ran out with all his gear, and the two of them headed off for a fun day trip with no pesky parents involved.  You see, you won’t always have to play nursemaid to Griffin!”

There was silence.  Then Tom said in a small voice, “Tell me that story again.”

2.  Before Ian got his license, my friend Helen (mother of 5 boys!) shared her experience.  “When my eldest got his license, I was so nervous about him driving his little brothers around that I wouldn’t let him take them anywhere.  This lasted for a week or so.  After that, I was completely over it.  ”Drive your brother to soccer practice!  Then pick up milk, come home, and take another brother to his lesson!”  So true.  It’s wonderful to have another driver in the family, and very quickly, the convenience trumps the anxiety.

3.  As we walked to the car yesterday, I handed the keys to Hugh and said “I’ll be your co-pilot.”  “No,” he responded “Malcolm is my co-pilot.”  The backstory:  Chris’s brother Ken called me in December to report that he had seen a car on I-95 with a bumper sticker reading “Malcolm Reynolds is my co-pilot.”  Since that is exactly the name of our kid, he did a double-take.  I told Ken that, having seen some inappropriate Facebook fan pages for a Malcolm Reynolds while looking up my own Malcolm’s page, I knew the name belonged to a character in a sci-fi TV show called Firefly – and the car he saw must have belonged to a Firefly fan.  Ken immediately went online and ordered the product for Malcolm’s birthday.  What could be a more perfect gift from an uncle?

And hey, seeing how grubby our auto is at the end of a long and messy winter gives me an idea.  Maybe Hugh can take it to the carwash!

Car rides are where it’s at, when I need to have a meaningful chat with someone in my life.

Many parents know this trick.  To get your kid to open up, usher him or her to the automobile for some sort of longish errand, sit behind the wheel, pull off a complicated left turn, and throw out a casual observation or question while seeming to be paying only partial attention.

The distance between front seat and back seat, the lack of eye contact, and the buddy-movie equation tends to get the conversation flowing. 

Going back a generation, my mom knew this trick.  I remember the 120 mile drive west on I-70, heading to Kansas City to buy new school clothes, an annual odyssey of August.  It was probably the summer before senior year.  Despite the fact that no boys had ever asked me out, and despite my conviction that I was a skinny freak who would never attract the opposite sex, she knew better. 

As I recall, when we crossed the bridge over the Missouri River near Rocheport, she began a meandering, awkward lecture about boys, their goals vis a vis girls, and the dangers therein.  I was mortified, of course, and don’t remember anything specifically, except for the euphemistic conclusion.  ”You have to be careful, Jennifer, or some boy will wrestle you to the mat.” 

I’m sure I grunted something noncommital, inwardly thinking “As if!”  Or maybe “If only!”  Still, her melodramatic pronouncement definitely sank in.  Chris loves this quote, which only adds to his appreciation for my mom’s often brilliant wordsmithery.

The monotonous lull of I-70 seemed to bring out cautionary lectures among parents.    That same summer, a group of innocent girls piled into a car driven by our friend Caroline’s father.  We were bound for Six Flags Over Mid-Missouri.  Grey-haired and  ancient, Caroline’s dad was gruff and protective of his 8th child and only daughter.  I was shocked when he lectured us about watching out for predatory boys.  He actually said “You girls mark my words, boys will try to get down your pants” – another phrase I had never heard before.   Muffled gasps and giggles met his words.  But again, I remember those cautionary words and that ride to this day.  And sadly enough, it was Caroline who got pregnant shortly after graduating from her Christian college.   She kept the baby and tabled her dreams – a life-altering event indeed.

When Ian was a preschooler and had just learned about death, he asked me a long barrage of questions on the subject in the car.  I remember it vividly – the town we were driving through, Ian’s struggle to articulate abstract concepts, the surreal juxtaposition of banal landscape and sublime workings of a child’s mind.  

And when I want to have a long talk with Chris, the car is usually the best place.  If you’re the driver, there’s nothing else to do except listen to the radio, or talk.   We’ve had long, meandering, meaningful discussions while the miles roll away beneath.

At home, we’re distracted by computer screens, phone calls, unwashed dishes, unfolded laundry, unmade beds.  Someone is always buzzing around doing something, because there’s always something to do.  But the siren song of the computer is especially tempting. 

I hate talking to someone and seeing their eyes darting to the screen while they say “uh huh, uh huh.”  You know they’re not really taking in what you’re saying, they’re trying to trick you so you’ll stop moving your mouth and go away, after which point, they’ll retain little.

This does not make me unique.  I have a friend who sometimes barks at her uber-wonky husband, “Take your hand off the mouse and step away from the computer!”   A woman I know who has a high-powered lawyer husband once whisked him away on a surprise trip to Martha’s Vineyard, because she heard that there was poor reception there and his blackberry would be stilled.  I hope they had a least one or two dinners featuring all human conversation.

Cheaper than Martha’s Vineyard is the family car, which also enforces stillness and focus.  If you can prevent all the other forms of intrusive technology that have encroached into automobiles from butting in,  it’s still – in my mind – the best place to have an uninterrupted talk.

Video game drivers.

These young dudes grew up playing video games, and you can tell that’s where they got their driving technique.  Certainly not from driver’s ed, which – done properly – would have taught them to always leave a large space between cars, to be mindful of other people, to not operate a moving vehicle demonically, and   above all, to drive defensively.

Instead, these guys in their teens and 20s drive as offensively as possible.  Coming home from a night Phillies game recently, I was driving with Hugh in the passenger seat.  Suddenly a sporty dark death car swooped and swerved in front of us, before speeding off in another lane.  We could see red brake lights brightening up ahead as this idiot picked off dozens of unsuspecting, safe drivers, one by one.  

I said “Hugh, promise me you’ll never drive like that.”

Hugh promised, and then said later, “No offense Mom, but he was in control.  He knew what he was doing.” 

I begged to differ.  While conceding the point that yes, young guys have good reflexes – thank God - quick reaction time is ultimately not enough.  Sooner or later, they’re going to go out of control. 

And unlike the times when they’re driving a fake car on a glowing screen and a wreck just means losing the game to their buddy, this crash is going to hurt. 

Sadly, we needed expensive studies and elected officials to tell us that texting while driving = bad.

This report comes straight from the Ministry of the Bleeding Obvious (hey, have I just quoted a Monty Python reference?).  The conclusion is painfully self-evident.  Do we really have to be told not to take our eyes off the road and look down at a tiny little keyboard while operating a two-ton death machine, possibly with innocent people in it, and innocent people all around?  Tragically, yes.  Yes, we do have to have this law laid down.  Studies now show that texting massively increases the chance of crashing.

Maybe the studies and senators have done something important here.   They’ve exposed just one of the terribly common and terribly dangerous activities people do while sitting behind the wheel.

Other asinine driving behaviors that I’ve seen with my own eyes, or heard reported from solid sources:

WATCHING MOVIES while driving.  Are auto manufacturers really putting screens on the front dashboard?  Are you kidding me?  Shouldn’t such stupidity be outlawed?  Aren’t horrendous outcomes pretty much assured?  Years from now, kids will sit in drivers ed class, watching gory movies of bodies being pulled from crumpled cars.  “Yes, apparently the driver was guffawing at Dumb and Dumber when he plowed into the back of the minivan, going 85 mph.” 

READING while driving.  Maps, newspapers, magazines.  Pull over to read the map.  Listen to books on tape.  Wait until you’re in your easy chair to read the newspaper.   Your eyes are supposed to be constantly scanning the road ahead and back and forth between your side mirrors.  CONSTANTLY.  You’re not supposed to be looking at the Macy’s sale.  Why does this even have to be stated?

PLAYING GUITAR while driving.  Chris witnessed this on a highway near Valley Forge once.  So that’s why George Washington’s troops suffered through a horrible winter.  So you could strum folk songs while operating your Chevy Nova.

APPLYING MASCARA while driving.  Ever poke yourself in the eye with the wand thingy?  I’ve done it plenty of times while standing, stationary, at a sink.  Blurry, watery vision is the instant, painful result.

Maybe President Obama should weigh in on this issue and pronounce that texting while driving is “acting stupidly.”  And surely his drinking buddies at the picnic table last night would agree with him on that.  Because the incendiary topic of race is not a factor in this equation.  It just comes down to common sense, basic respect for human life, and responsible behavior.