THOUGH I DRIVE THROUGH THE VALLEY
I can remember vividly, as I’m sure she can, my mother teaching me how to drive. It was 1972 and we had a Plymouth station wagon and a Chevrolet Malibu. Whenever I would ask my parents to help me test drive, they had two approaches to teaching me to drive. My father would say, “Go ask your mother,” and her’s was the job of taking me out. For months she would sit beside me as I practiced on the back roads of South Jersey. Sometimes she would drive and tell me what she was doing, other times she would talk me through a particular operation of the car. I remember the first time I drove at night. We were returning from visiting my mom’s brother, and had to get on the Walt Whitman bridge from an access ramp. It was 9:00 p.m., pitch dark, pouring rain. As I sat waiting to enter the six lane highway, with all…
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