My Hometown

My Hometown

When Daddy Let Me Drive

After dropping my father-in-law off the other day, on my way home Alan Jackson’s “Drive (For Daddy Gene)” came on the radio station I was tuned into.

As I sang along with the song, “I was Mario Andretti when Daddy let me drive,” a smile crossed my face as I thought back to my first driving experience.

Mom always knew that it would be dad that would teach us kids how to drive, I just don’t think she expected him to start me out at the ripe old age of 4.

Dad and I pulled out of the drive to run errands that day; he in the driver’s seat, me in the passenger.

Mom stood on the porch waving goodbye to us.

But, once we turned that corner and mom was completely out of view, dad pulled over to the side of the road and put the truck in park. He let me slide on over and sit on his lap.

Of course, my feet weren’t even close to the peddles, so he would control those, but my hands were on the wheel and I was in control of it (not really, but he let me believe I was).

As we rolled into the square, we honked at the business owners who were out in front of their stores sweeping.

“Hey Mr. Jack!,” I yelled to the owner of Jack’s Hardware.

Honk-Honk, I waved to Mrs. Johnson, the lady who ran the local beauty salon.

After running all our errands and grabbing a quick bite to eat at Millie’s Diner in the center of town, dad returned to the driver’s seat and me to the passenger seat; mom would never know.

Oh, but she knew!

In an everybody knows everybody town, word spreads quickly – especially when store owners call to tell your mom how cute you looked driving dad’s truck through the square!

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