Many years ago, I asked the English teacher who edits this column two questions: “How long should a short story be?” and, “How do you write one?”
She replied, “Just long enough to tell the story. Not one word longer and certainly not one word shorter.”
And she said, “Every story has three parts – a beginning, middle and end. But not necessary in that order.” As confusing as her answers were, I can truthfully say this story almost ended before it started. And that’s why we are going to begin somewhere in the middle.
Inside the car cautiously making its way down a narrow country road, the question in the air was quite simple, “Big Papa, when did you start driving?” Watching with trepidation as we edged ever so closely to the steep drop-off on my side, the last thing I wanted to do was startle our lovable Icky Teenager who is learning to drive. Startling her could cause the little car to veer off the road, prompting a sudden emergency correction by Yours Truly. Unfortunately, my answer to her question caused all the above to happen. Once safely back on the road, she responded, “No way! You started driving at 6-years-old?” Yes way! I did.
Many stories have been written about those seven years my three brothers, The Sister and I spent growing up on Flamingo Street — some more believable than others. But this is one even I wouldn’t believe … except there are hospital and police records to prove that it all happened. Hang on, Dear Reader, this is gonna be one bumpy ride back to Flamingo in our forest green station wagon with the faux wood panels.
After building our house and then moving us in, Mom said Dad needed a much deserved beach vacation. Being 6, all I heard was we were going to the beach. None of us kids had ever been. We’d never chased crabs, searched for shells, or even swam in an ocean.
We were all excited, but I was crazy excited. It’s what Dad said to the policeman that was called to investigate the accident, “That boy’s just crazy.” Crazy? No, just impatient.
On the day we were leaving, I climbed up and sat in the driver’s seat of our car. But in my defense, what happened next really wasn’t my fault. It was Dad’s. And that’s what I told the policeman. He had taken just too long loading the car and I wanted to go to the beach.
Driving was going to be easy; I’d been watching Mom and Dad for years. Besides, he had already started the car so the air conditioner would cool it down. All I had to do was climb in, close the door, move the thingy to D, and I was on my way to the beach.
Unfortunately I moved it to N, and the car started its ill-fated trip backwards, only stopping at the bottom of the driveway when it crashed into a giant oak tree. Did I mention that on my backwards trip I hit Twin Brother Mark, knocking him down before running over both of his legs? That’s how he ended up in the hospital and I ended up in a whole lot of trouble.
Even though Mark turned out to be okay with only a few bruises, our beach vacation was cancelled. Now, 54 years later, we have once again cancelled a beach vacation due to a young car driver. But this time, it wasn’t because of an accident but, rather, a recent purchase.
Our lovable Icky Teenager will turn 16 this January, and she will be getting a wonderful used car for her birthday from The Wife and Yours Truly. She just has to practice driving as much as she can between now and then.
That’s how, with 27 years of emergency driving experience, I find myself in the passenger seat instructing her what to do (and what not to do) when she is behind the wheel.
Next lesson will be how to back up safely. After all, we have two little ones who love playing outside and a giant oak tree at the bottom of our driveway just waiting to be crashed into.
[Rick Ryckeley has been writing stories since 2001. To read more of Rick’s stories, visit his blog: storiesbyrick.wordpress.com.]
