Driving Lessons
Sixteen on a Wednesday
Wednesdays in the Midwest
were for tornadoes - well, drills, that is.
/
Walking backward with excitement,
I waved the paperwork in my hands,
showing my father the amount of practice
I was required to have before the state
would deem me road-safe.
/
I was rushing him,
grinding my tennis shoe in the rubble
in a particularly loud display of
“Hurry up, dad” and
“I love you” and
“Which foot pushes the brake?”
/
He was smiling, checking his shirt pocket,
and adjusting his glasses.
He wiped his hands in a thorough display of
“Look, no grease” and
“I love you” and
“When we get home I need to finish working on
your mom’s car or she will kill me, but it
might already be too late because I got grease
all over her front seat.”
/
I got in and stared out the window,
suddenly nervous with the wheel in front of me.
“You use one foot and alternate pedals,”
he offered, watching me closely.
I started the car (wow!), put it in gear
and inched us forward.
/
“Get used to the brak-”
I lurched us, cutting him off.
Tornado sirens blared around us.
/
We stared for a while
before looking at each other
and laughing,
his hand finding mine in a
reassuring squeeze that screamed
“Look at you go!” and
“I love you” and
“It’s Wednesday, right?”
About the Creator
Lisa Herdman
I'm learning to be wildly inappropriate, ridiculous, needy - and alive.
Thank you so much for all the support!
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Peanuts and Crackerjack
Bottom of the ninth inning. The game is tied with two outs, two strikes and a man on second. I tap the bat on home plate. The rigid vibrations it creates reminds my aching digits that this isn't over. The practice swing only adds to the heft of mental burnout... Man on second, willing to chance it. Pitcher eyes him but doesn't give in to the dangerous bluff. I kick up dust, readying the peculiar stance I've had since the days of little league. The bat lays stiff upon my cramping shoulder. Pain has no reason to be acknowledged; it's a fleeting afterthought. The sun sits passed high noon, but the stadium lights are on anyway. They trick my brain into believing they are the cause of this sweltering heat. Sporadic clouds are motionless, they too, don't want to miss this exhilarating predicament. Anticipating the next pitch, intensifying roars from the crowd rumble the stadium... Behind me, the crafty catcher adjusts his stance and spits to the dry dirt. Behind him, the staunch umpire doesn't flinch or even blink; he knows how important his call will be. The pitcher winds up, his grip tells me its gonna curve. The release is fierce! Beads of sweat from his hair and face disperse in every direction as the force of his might is unfailing. My left leg lifts—an instinctual move that will increase the power of my swing. It's all down to my two, bloodshot eyes. They lock onto the speeding, white dot as it instantly becomes the target I intend to destroy. The swing is late, but I manage a solid tip. The ball is taking a fast bounce toward the pitcher who is recovering from the almighty throw! Man on second leaves in a desperate rush! I fling the bat to the side with a sense of urgency and make a mad sprint to the only destination I have—first base. Three defenders race inward to be the first to retrieve the skidding ball. Man is almost on third! I watch the open glove of my adversary, wondering if I’ve done enough to win this race. I switch my attention to his eyes, looking for a clue, some kind of reaction that tells me the ball is in the air and heading his way. All I see is frustration. The deafening roar of the crowd spikes! Something happens that I can’t see! My opponent abandons his post right as my left stride touches the bag. I waste no time turning my head to see the pitcher laying on his stomach, pounding the mound with an open glove. He misses the opportunity to out me and the ball has quickly bounced past him. Excitement grows! This isn’t over yet... It's become an imperative fight to tag out the runner heading homeward. The catcher falls to his knees in obvious despair as he watches my teammate make the run of his life. He knows it’s going to be close when he sees the shortstop fumble the ball a second too long. I jump up and down with no plans on leaving first base. All my chips are on the speed and agility of the active runner. His cleats dig into the dirt, trailing a dust-filled cyclone from the rapid and strenuous strides. With a thrusting dive and an outstretched arm, he lands on his chest to begin the crucial slide to home plate. The shortstop fires the ball to the catcher! It immediately begins closing the gap! Nail-biting doesn't begin to describe the anxious vibe permeating the stadium. The bench begins to celebrate even before he reaches the plate. Forty thousand cheering fans reach maximum crescendo, filling the air with a glorious sound. Everyone knows how this story will end… My teammate is met by the entire bench as his fingers inch across home plate, instantly followed by the unmistakable motion of the catcher's glove attempting to tag him out—its milliseconds too late. The ump swings his arms outward, officially calling him safe.
By Lamar Wiggins3 days ago in Fiction
Comments (3)
Dear Ms. Lisa ~ Simply you are always succinct - never feeling the need to over-explain; we all have memories of this. * My Twin and I were 1st in line at the D.M.V. on our 16th Birthday. Of Late the Newbies' TEST in their Mom's Self- Parking Cadillac's ~ Talk about a Big "Test"-Cheat-Sheet! - Thanks for the Memories - Jay P.S. ~ Do you think the Unique Pastor Randy Passed the "Test?" - Nah! -
Dear Lisa ~ Sweet to Leave in ~ What we often Leave out ! Jay Kantor, Chatsworth, California 'Senior' Vocal Author - Vocal Author Community -
When I was 15, my parents didn't teach me how to drive. They left that for Drivers' Ed. Once I had my license, mom offered to let me drive home from wherever we were out in the country. In Drivers' Ed, they emphasized favoring the shoulder to hugging the center line since whatever you hit if you went into the ditch would be at the speed you were going, not adding to it the speed of the other vehicle. Mom was terrified of shoulders & kept screaming at me to move toward the center. "Oncoming traffic will move over for you," she insisted as she tried to get me to take my half of the road out of the center. I argued with her. She became frantic & made me pull over & trade places. I don't think I ever drove anywhere with her in the vehicle after that. I'm really glad I took Drivers' Ed rather than learning to drive from her.