When my granddaughter turned 16, she went without delay to the county DMV for her driving test and license. Her father had found a used Volkswagen Passat months ago and had made it road ready for this moment. Ella had been driving with him and her mom for months as well, practicing with them and taking a couple of private lessons just for good measure. I waved goodbye and wished her luck as she and her mom left for her test appointment.
I watched them back down the long driveway and turn into the street. I hated backing down that driveway, even with a back camera on my Subaru, I often landed in the mulch on the side yards. I remember avoiding my first test till I was nineteen, failing it, and once being told by a female instructor, when I had to retake the test because of an expired license, that I was indeed a terrible driver.
But those memories floated aside, pushed out by memories of the ‘do or die’ driver’s test required by the United Nations if I were to stay in Cambodia and complete my mission. I remembered it with absolute clarity. The test—in a stick-shift car, which I hadn’t driven since wearing out the clutch on a Datsun 240Z twenty years earlier—was demoralizing. By the time that I arrived at the motor pool, I was in a state of panic. “Get in the truck,” the grim-faced examiner grunted. I tried giving him my best smile, to no avail. I couldn’t tell what country he was from or what language he spoke. For all I knew, he hated Americans.
Hardly able to breathe, I clutched the steering wheel so tightly that my hands cramped as I narrowly missed colliding with a severely listing, overloaded Russian transport truck. The gears scraped a couple of times when I parallel parked the 4X4 in a space large enough for a VW Beetle. Exhausted, I barely remembered to let out the clutch before turning off the ignition.
“Driving in Phnom Penh will be a picnic compared to the boonies,” he said, almost as if he were speaking to himself. “Have you learned what to do if the truck hits a landmine? Sometimes they wash up onto the roads. Oh, and don’t forget the hand brake; remembering to set it will keep you from falling off a cliff. And if I were you, I would learn to use a winch.” He left the truck to move on to his next victim, as I contemplated asking him to fail me and send me home. But by the time I had regained my ability to speak, he was gone.
Ella returned from her driver’s exam elated. The instructor, known to be a hard nose among his peers and colleagues, had given her the highest passing score. I was ‘grandma-proud,’ but I wondered whose driving talents she had inherited. They certainly weren’t from me.
PS What triggered this blog was a conversation I had with a childhood friend. She’s 82, a year older than me. Her children have taken her car away, absconded with it, and turned in her drivers license. They said an accident at her age would be a financial disaster. She now “Ubers” with some agency called GO GO-grandma and grandpa. It’s a nightmare for her. I get it…and I’ll happily turn my car in when its time…but she was not given a choice, a warning or a reasonable alternative. So much for the golden years.
Carole J. Garrison 
🧡
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