Michael D. Davis

A few weeks ago, after reading my column, my Dad came up to me and said, “Can ya ever write about somethin’ good I did?” Joking, I said, “When ya do somethin’ good, I’ll write about it.” And, well, if you’re reading this old man, let’s just say this story ain’t gonna earn ya a gold star, but it’s true, and it’s funny.

So, let’s start at the beginning, my birth. Ya see when they decided to become parents, my Ma split the duties 90-10. Giving my dad a small list of things that was his responsibility. This included teaching me and my sister how to drive.

He, of course, started with my older sister. I don’t know what he taught her, but I think his teachings were flawed. She has the confidence of a Nascar driver and the driving skills of a dead Nascar driver. My sister only has two more curbs to hit around town, then I think the Mayor’s giving her a prize for gettin’ them all.

I’m gonna boil my dad’s teachings down into the story of one lesson he gave me. We were in our old Dodge Omni, which was so small I had to store some of my stomach on the dash when I drove. It was the middle of winter, and we were down on an out of the way street. The ice on the pavement was like a mirror.

My dad had me stop in the road; no one was around. These were his words. “Now, when I say so, you’re gonna gun the hell out of it for a second or two, then hit the brake hard.” The old man then braced himself in his seat.

We got up to about 20 or 30, then I slammed on the brake. We started to swerve and spin. I started to scream and swear. I glanced over; the old man was smiling wide enough for me to count his back teeth. When we came to a stop, he told me he did that so I would know what it was like and what not to do. He called it cuttin’ nuts. We did it a few more times before going home.

When it comes to driving, my Ma is the master of the bunch. Ice and snow doesn’t slow her down. We have a large side yard with an alley entrance in the back. Back when my Ma had her Buick, or any of the old cars, that were closer to the ground than grass, she’d make a game outta come in from the alley, through the side yard in the snow.

The alley would usually be clear. We’d stop in the alley at the top of the yard. My Ma would tell us to hold on. Then she’d hit it. The car would jump through the feet of untouched snow. The engine would rev, and we’d be jostled to and fro in the car as my Ma rammed the vehicle through the snow around to the front of the house. She only ever got stuck once. My Dad had been riding shotgun, and she blames him for jinxing her to get stuck.

Speaking of getting stuck, I have this buddy. He’s a good dude, very macho, and thinks of himself as a young Stallone. Dude drives a huge truck. I’m talking one of those big Dodge trucks ya see advertised on TV with Sam Elliot sayin’ somethin’ like, “If ya can’t ride a horse, ride a Ram.”

Anyways, a few weeks ago, after that big snowstorm, he got his truck stuck. In his driveway. I’m not talking country gravel driveway; I’m talkin’ in town paved driveway. He had to shovel his truck out. He told my Ma this story, and she called him a name often reserved for kitty cats or willow trees. She said she could’ve driven out of there with no problem. He said no way; the snow bluff was up to his neck.

Frankly, I don’t care where the snow was or how high. Having ridden with my Ma in an ’88 Buick going nearly 40 miles an hour through uncut snow without gettin’ stuck, I’ll have to side with her. I think she could’ve driven his truck out with little to no problem, but that’s just me.