Driving Into the Garage
One day when I was about 10, I was shooting baskets in our driveway with my best buddy. My brother, John, 16 and the proud bearer of a new driver’s license, drove in and stopped short of the garage.
“Hey Little Punk,” he said. “Want to park the car in the garage?”
To which there could be only one answer. “Sure,” I said.
John ascertained that the safest arrangement was for him to steer and for me to sit in his lap and be in charge of the pedals. As we crept into the garage, I was at a high state of alert, so when he said, “OK. This is far enough,” I heard, “Stop!” and slammed on the brake.
Only it wasn’t the brake; it was the accelerator. The car lurched forward and plowed into and partly out through the back of the garage.
John and I both suffered the consequences. My parents came down hard on him; I was considered blameless because, as just a little kid, I couldn’t possibly be expected to do such a grownup thing as to help to drive a car.
What humiliation!
Tom Lisle, 78, drives around in McKinleyville.
