#1-Learning to drive standard with Gramp
Flash back to my first vehicular near miss, probably in 1966 at age 16 not too long after I had taken Driver’s Ed ,passed the Registry written and driving tests so I had that ticket to mobile freedom, that teenage proof of passage, my driver’s license. I was careful and responsible, did fine with the automatic transmission car my folks would let me borrow, but there was another challenge to master- the standard transmission. Gramp lived on Kilby St (later our first home) and had a Chevy Bel Air ,a brand new one at that ,but true to his pioneer background the absolutely most basic model- no radio, no AC and no automatic – he probably would have opted out of the seats and windshield if that had been an option. Gramp, though a bit gruff and very old fashioned, was very good for so long picking us grandchildren and friends up so often ,mostly after school at St Anne’s- He had his own free style style of driving, would occasionally call out the car window heartfelt colorful expressions we kids did not understand at those who beeped their disapproval. He had a low tolerance for kids behaving like kids in the back seat, admonishing them to what sounded to us like “wish” ,declaring that once even when he accidentally slammed the car door shut on the hand of one of his young passengers.(no serious damage done) Being the oldest I sat in the front passenger seat on these drives , no seatbelts then and I would hang on tightly to the door as he made his usual full speed brakeless turn into Peterson Road with the other kids rolling around in the back seat.. One more driving memory: for some reason Gramp picked me up down the Neck when I was walking with babysitting Cyndy and 3year old brother Robbie who whispered but not very quietly from the back seat-“Hey Cyndy, why is Mike’s Grandfather driving and wearing a parachute?” The parachute was actually his ubiquitous and anachronistic suspenders – but a parachute would at times have been appropriate and I’m gradually getting to a particlar for instance.
Gramp offered to teach me how to drive standard shift and actually he was not a particlarly patient explainer. This I knew from being his helper on a few family carpentry projects. I just mostly watched, handed him tools and grimaced thinking of his missing fingers when he turned on the skill saw with the safety guard tied back because he insisted it got in his way.
Anyhow he imparted the basics of shifting as I drove down Sea St and we headed up Great Hill along the back bayside road. We turned the corner, I headed up the hill and he ordered me to stop…time to learn how to stop and start on a steep hill. With him sitting beside me I tuned the key and as soon as I did the car slid backward so I jammed on the brake with the other foot all the way down on the clutch. “No,” he said,”Turn the key and step on the gas and throw out the clutch!” I did not really know how to throw out the clutch –other than when the Stooges would literally rip it out of the floor and send it flying out the window. It must have something to do with tension on the clutch but I tried this seemingly impossible gymnastic maneuver repeatedly and each time the car rapidly slid backward and stalled when I jammed on the brake- all the while Gramp yelling “Throw out the clutch!, Throw out the clutch!” Stalling and restarting each time the car slid back I shot a glance in the rear view mirror and all I could see was the fence at the edge of the hillside and the Quincy Bay looming below and beyond and I really did not want to turn a driving lesson in a death by drowning for me and Gramp…so on about the 6th desperate try somehow I got the balance of gas and clutch close enough to leave a patch of rubber and progress jerkily up the hill. “Now you’re getting the hang of it like I told you!” Gramp said, “You just have to throw out the clutch!” I passed this test enough to satisfy him and he was generous in letting me borrow the car to go out on dates…but for a long time and everytime I stopped at a light even on a level stretch the car would jerk and buck as I started up and tried to get that right balance between the gas and that other troublesome pedal…a muscle memory responding to Gramp’s admonishments in my ear …”Throw out the clutch, Micheal, throw out the clutch!”
(Less dangerous but memorable- I was helping Gramp shingle the driveway side on some staging when I was about 13, (1963) he would have been about 68 I guess, when there was a loud crack as his rigging split and the next thing I new I was on the pavement maybe 6-8 feet below and he was pulling me up off the ground and asking if I was all right…no problem for him as in past ladder jumping and falls from roofs several floors up this was nothing!)
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