he drove. A half mile or so of gravel dust raised behind us brought the winged hood ornament to the paved road. I stopped back seat steering then, for at that moment I couldn’t even imagine driving a car on a paved road.

 But I sat back in the seat and practiced the leg motions that Curt had taught. He’d set me down on a bale of hay a week before. I followed his bidding as I held my arms up at 9 o’clock and one. That was my steering position he said.

“Keep your hands on the wheel right there to steer. It’s different for you than me, because you’re left handed.”

I nodded my head and held my hands on the imaginary wheel of the old Ford truck, the one I wished to drive.

“Now, lift your left foot slowly to let out the clutch pedal. That’ll get you moving. I’ll teach you how to shift for yourself later.

 To stop.., step the brake pedal down with your right foot as you also step down with your left foot to push in the clutch.”

He looked at me with a doubtful smile, “You got it?”

“Yep,” I said from my hay bale perch.

“Sure you do… practice!”

 “But what about the gas pedal.” I said.

 Uncle Curt tossed over his shoulder… “I’ll take care of the gas.”

 I sat in the back seat of the car on the way to church, practicing the one up, two down motion as we went. It didn’t help to watch Curt drive, because the Chevy convertible had an automatic transmission. I thought… “Wouldn’t be easier for Curt to teach me in this?”

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 Church went well, in spite of my antsy fanny setting on a wooden pew in the late morning warm. I sat between Curt and Mary and heard the preacher talk about obeying God’s commandments… and about the human futility of keeping them all. For some reason, the one about coveting seemed to jump to mind during my warm Florida stroll.

 All I could think about on that churchly Sunday morning in June was… one up; then two down. Even the ice cream social did not hold my

interest, though the homemade teaberry did cool the day. I remember that a very pretty blonde girl was introduced as being my age. She had straight and beautiful, long blonde hair that flowed to her waist. Her name was Lyla… “with a Y” she was quick to point out.

 “Why?” was my thought… “Why aren’t we leaving? Why can’t I drive yet? My teaberry is melted!”

Listen to the Word beneath the cross on a wooden pew in the late morning warm.

A Sunday Ride... (cont’d)