I Learned to Drive and so can You

by Georgianna Conkling – Over 50 and a Grandmother

I WAS tired of waiting for crowded street cars. If I wanted to visit my old home, I was obliged to travel three hours by train and boat, while if I had a car I could drive over in an hour, and take along my friends and all the bundles we pleased.

It was most embarrassing to have persons put themselves out to give me a lift. My friends felt that when they asked me to their homes they must also call for me and take me back. I would always insist upon having a taxi, but often it was late or lost the way.

I had expected to drive a car some day, and after a particularly trying experience when I needed one very much, I decided that because I was born in the nineteenth century there was no reason why I should not join the great American procession. That was one of the happiest and wisest decisions of my life.

I remember the day when an automobile was a “horseless” vehicle, a terror to the countryside, and a doubtful experiment. Consequently I have more respect for the motor car than has the flapper, whose first thought is to go as fast as possible or at least faster than the next car.

I wonder now how I could have ridden in automobiles for years and shown so little curiosity as to how they were managed. For that reason I had to begin with the first principles.

I decided to take plenty of time to learn, fearing that if I attempted to drive alone before I was thoroughly familiar with the technique I would lose my nerve and perhaps never drive.

It was my good fortune to find as a teacher a young college man who was firm, but sympathetic with my stupidity. He had the patience of Job. As soon as I learned to go a few feet, fearing all the time that the car with all that feel of power might get away from me, I insisted upon knowing how to stop. That gave me confidence. Then we made proper turnings and signals. I live in a region of hills and winding roads, a trying combination to master. We haunted real estate developments, going around and around the canna planted, irregular shaped islands at street intersections.

MY teacher insisted upon everything being properly done. How particular he was about taking curves slowly and being on the right side of the road! I did one thing over and over until, fearing I was tired, he proposed a different problem. I was the only pupil he ever had who did not give the poor engine enough gas. That was the conservatism of age.

When we came to backing that car it was like meeting the irregular verbs in French. I felt that we were going right across the county, and in my nervousness, stalled the engine.

After a while we went daily up the faithful hill where the tests for licenses are given. My teacher made me stop the car and turn around. The road was highly crowned. Some days I did it perfectly, and then the next hit the curb and backed too many times.

THEN came the day to take the state test. No flapper could ever be as excited over that as I. She could not appreciate how big a thing I thought I was doing. I went with the officer, not to the high crowned steep hill, but luckily to an easier one a block away.

While we were turning I remembered my teacher and gave right of way to an old vegetable truck coming down. On a curved street where a white line marked the center I kept carefully to the right of the mark, even though a parked car made this a little difficult. At a right turn I slowed down and hugged the curb when we turned left I made a slow, wide swing. Perhaps the officer realized that grandma was not nervous and that was why he gave me my license the next day. But grandma would have been nervous had she not taken four weeks to practise with the agreeable young man.

All that happened a year ago. I had a new but low priced car to learn with. It was but a short time before I wanted a bigger engine, one that would purr when I stepped on the gas. Now I have that car and bless the day I decided to drive it.

I UNDERSTAND Lindbergh’s “We,” for my car and I have been alone over some of New England’s famous trails and “we” are faithful friends. I do not think we are a nuisance on the road, or drive too slowly, though we rarely exceed 40 miles an hour, because we wish to enjoy the country. The sunset hour and moonlight inspire us, and we also enjoy coming home through lighted streets after spending the evening out. I am no longer dependent upon street cars, buses, or the taxi man, or a burden to my friends.

There must be many women who miss the thrill of sitting behind the wheel because they are afraid to try. It is easy to learn to drive provided one masters one operation after another, slowly but surely; and is determined not to be nervous. So I say to all women who think they would like to learn to drive:

Get a patient teacher and go ahead. Don’t let your family talk you out of it. They may say you are too nervous or that you can never understand machinery. I know women who Jump into their cars  and drive out into the country to quiet nerves that have become ragged with home cares and problems. And as for machinery, who needs to know more than the mere rudiments of motor car construction to drive nowadays, with operating made so simple and with service stations at almost every corner, so it seems, to take care of maintenance?

There is thrill, there is independence in driving a car. I hope the women who read these words won’t wait as long as I did before trying. And if you have waited, don’t put it off any longer. The woman of today drives an automobile. Don’t go on living in “yesterday.”

And now, a final suggestion: You will want good company on your trips, but until you are very sure of yourself take along no “back seat drivers.”