I Grew Up Brown County

“Ten and Two, Sarah. Check your mirrors. Foot on the brake. Now, ease it into Drive.”

I officially started Driver's Education last week. So far, we sit in the auditorium at the high school, and Mr. Helmrich lectures us about not chewing gum while driving and how “There are no such things as accidents! Every crash is a direct result of Driver Error!”

I’m going to be a senior this year, and I feel like I’m the only person in this program who’s old enough to get zits. They’re all freshman fifteen-year-olds. I’m a late bloomer, I guess.

Now that I have a Learner’s Permit, Mom decides it’s time for me to drive The Jeep. We haven’t actually driven in Driver's Ed yet, but Mom doesn’t know that. And I don’t volunteer the information. We head towards Crouch’s.

I make the widest left turn you’ve ever seen. The speedometer is seemingly stuck at 24 MPH.

“Go,” she urges me. “You have to at least go the speed limit.”

I start to speed up. And suddenly a police car is right behind me. We may see one police car a week on these back roads. Unbelievable. By this time, Mom has begun to notice that I don’t actually have any driving experience yet.

“Okay. Don’t freak out. Just use your signal and pull off the road up here into this driveway.”

The driveway she chose just so happens to have two large, stone columns on either side of its entrance. I am beyond intimidated and definitely panicking.
I brake.
But not enough. The columns are seconds away from crumpling the front end of The Jeep.

“Sarah! Stop! Stop!”

We come to an abrupt halt in the ditch next to the driveway. The policeman speeds on around us. Mom looks at me.

“I think that’s enough for one day. I’ll take it from here.”

Three Weeks Later

“Check the board for your assigned driving groups. Meet out front at the assigned time and don’t be late! I will leave you.”

And so we are dismissed from our last in-class Driver's Ed session. Next stop: Behind the wheel.

I get grouped with a couple of freshman girls who have known each other for years.

We drive around at the high school at first, getting used to the pedals and mirrors and various knobs. Then, the streets of Nashville. We make backwards figure eights in the Little Nashville Opry parking lot. As I’m making my first loop, I see the light pole in the rearview mirror looming closer and closer.

“StopStopStopStopStop,” I’m begging the car.

“Why don’t you try using the brake instead of talking to it, huh?” my compassionate instructor replies as he applies his handy instructor-side brake.

After a day or so, it’s time to tackle the interstate.

“Accelerate up the ramp, use your signal, check your blind spot, and merge into the interstate traffic going with the flow and speed. NEVER use your brakes on the interstate, understand?” Mr. Helmrich advises as we sit at the stoplight, awaiting my first interstate merge of a lifetime.

The gum he told us never to chew while driving, I am chomping furiously.

Up the ramp we go. -- Not so bad.

Indicate with left turn signal. -- Got it.

Anybody coming? -- Not that I can see.

Begin seamless first-merge onto the highway. – Flawlessly perfor--

 “STOP!” Mr. Helmrich cries out as he slams on the instructor brake.

I turn to look at my instructor, perplexed.

“Tell me you saw that semi,” he says, though it sounds more like a question.

I start to ask, “What semi?” but the behemoth truck in question goes flying past my side mirror, zooming ahead, barreling through the space I was about to fill with this little sedan. The girls in the back are giggling nervously, glad to be alive.

Mr. Helmrich is still looking at me expectantly.

“Umm... It was in my blind spot?” I answer.

Mr. Helmrich’s eyes widen. Is he amused? Amazed? Going to throttle me?

“Sarah,” he begins, but has to take a calming breath before going on.
“Sarah, an entire semi does not disappear in your blind spot!”

He takes another breath.

“Okay. Let’s try this again.”