My mom, sister, and
cousin were waiting to congratulate me on getting my license and witnessed my
quick return. With wide eyes, they asked, “What happened?”
I shrugged. “I failed.” Humiliation
clung to me without limits. Why couldn’t the Earth open a hole so I could crawl
into it? My mom drove us home.
I never had a chance to
practice driving before the test. My mom refused to let me take her vehicle because
she feared I’d wreck it. Her prediction came true when we moved to Houston. I
had nine wrecks that first year, but it wasn’t in her car. Yes, you read that
right. NINE!
But I’m getting ahead of
myself. At the age of 18, I married. Hubby’s ten-year-old clunker became my wheels, too. The thing didn’t even
have heat or air conditioning. We sweated torrents in the summer and broke icicles
away from our noses in the winter, but I gained experience as a driver while we
lived in Oklahoma.
When we moved to Texas
and pastored a small, country church, we bought a stick-shift sedan. It heated
us in the winter, but it had no cooling for summer. The temperature registered
116 F for days at a time during the summer months. When we exited the car, we
looked as though we had been swimming in our clothes. The land cracked under this
brutal heat, but we watered it with dripping sweat each time we went outside.
Winter or summer, I drove
our stick-shift around country roads and didn’t see other vehicles for miles at
a time. Not one accident in the five years we lived there. I’ve learned, right?
Wait till I move to Houston! Remember? NINE in one year!
From the north plains of
Texas, we moved about 100 miles east and arrived in Irving, TX. Uh oh! It is
the city where I failed my first driving test, but now I have my license, and I’m
experienced. I’m familiar with streets and locations, and I don’t drive into
the big city of Dallas. No worries.
But! Houston is ahead of
me. NINE is in my future.
After almost four years
in a lovely Irving church where my hubby was pastor, a church in Houston wanted
us as their first family.
So, we headed south.
Huge Houston contains zillions
of highways with multiple loops to ring the city, and it is widespread. The Med
Center is well-known, but it requires a good car to get through the maze to
visit sick parishioners, and our stick-shift had seen its better days.
We left Houston and drove
south to Dickenson, Texas to buy a Gay car.
Yeah, yeah, I know my name is Gay, but the dealership in Dickenson is
also named Gay. The dealership isn’t homosexual, and neither am I, but we are
both Gay. I drove a Gay Pontiac with my
name, Gay, on the back fender. Crazy, huh?
Then the accidents began.
My name on the car had nothing
to do with the collisions. I had never been forced to drive defensively, but
Houston requires that style of motoring, and I hadn’t learned that technique
yet.
The first catastrophe was
my fault. Yes, I admit it. I did it. Fortunately, I was alone when a driver,
who had the green light, zoomed into the intersection and crashed into my
passenger side.
The officer asked me to
sit in his squad car. We needed to get out of traffic, and he wanted to ask a
few questions.
“Officer, my light was
yellow when I went through it. I didn’t know it was about to turn red.” He issued me a warning. Nice guy, really
nice.
I drove home to show my
hubby. The entire passenger side of my station wagon
was caved in. I assume the other driver’s car took a big hit too, but at that
moment, my sympathy was for myself.
We took our beautiful, blue
and white Pontiac back to the dealership for repair. A costly repair.
The next month, to the
day of the first accident, I had crash number two. Yep. You read that right.
Month to the day. But I was innocent!
Except for that defensive driving thingy. When in Houston, one must
anticipate someone running a stop sign. (Bear in mind, the driver who hit me
didn’t think about me rushing a yellow light. turning red)
A lady ran a stop sign,
broadsided me, backed up, and fled the scene. I chased her in my car, and a kind
man followed us. When the police arrived, the Good Samaritan explained how the
woman ran the stop sign and barreled into me. The lady was not a citizen and
had no license. That’s why she bolted. She got a ticket. I later learned she never
paid for it.
When we returned to the
dealership for repairs, the head honcho scratched his head, “Didn’t we just replace
the side of this very car?”
Bright red with embarrassment, I turned around and left hubby to explain.
Now get this! The repair bill was less than $100 of the first restoration. Wow!
They gave me the preferred customer discount!
To Be Continued. Stay tuned. You don’t want to miss the next wreck.
