Dad, a Parking Lot and a Stick Shift

My father insisted that I learn to drive a stick shift before I turned thirty. "It's a life skill," he said. I had made it to twenty-nine and a half by avoiding the subject.

In June, he took me to the empty parking lot of a church on a Sunday afternoon, in his old pickup truck. He sat in the passenger seat with his arms crossed and told me to let the clutch out slowly.

I stalled. I stalled again. I stalled eleven times in a row. The truck lurched and shuddered like an angry horse. He didn't raise his voice once. He just kept saying, "Again. Easy. Feel it."

On the twelfth try, the truck rolled forward smoothly. I shifted into second. Then third. I drove a big lap around the lot, laughing, while my dad pumped his fist out the open window.

We got ice cream afterward. He let me drive us there. I stalled once at a red light. He said that one didn't count.