I have trouble completing routine tasks
It's 10 p.m. on a Friday and I just finished cleaning bathrooms. Well, almost finished.
When Jackie was diagnosed with MS, we hired someone to come in and clean every other week. On the weeks the person didn't clean, I would give the bathrooms a quick once over.
She decided to stop cleaning, and since we (I) have a lot of time, we (I for the most part) am doing the cleaning ourselves.
So why was I cleaning bathrooms at 10 on a Friday night?
All week I said I was going to get an early start. Up and at em. Get 'em clean.
I also wanted to look for eagles along the Rock by Oregon.
No problem. Up early. Up and at 'em.
Well, at 9:15 I was getting up. Now in my defense, I pulled a rib cage muscle and it hurts when I stretch or lay on it. So I moved to the Lazy Boy (for you perverts, that's a chair) somewhere in the pre-dawn hours. It was not a restful night of sleep.
I ate breakfast. Up and at 'em.
But I was working on a crossword puzzle, and I had a couple of clues I could actually fill in.
10:15.....shower time. Then it's get at the bathrooms.
11:15..... didn't realize how long I had been on spider solitaire, e-mail and Facebook, but it was now time to get at those bathrooms!
So I started at about 11:20....and worked until about 1. By then I was hungry, again, so had some lunch....worked on my crossword and at 1:30 went to let out the dogs.
By then two of the three bathrooms had been cleaned.
But I had made a vow to go look for eagles, so after the dogs enjoyed a romp in the yard, (By the way, her dogs have become recycling machines....do not let them lick you or kiss you. Enough said.) I headed to Oregon.
I sat by the dam for a while, then moved to a rest area where I saw three rather large brownish birds across the river. They may have been immature balds or rough legged hawks. The romantic in me wants me to believe they were eagles.
I drove north on IL 2 and saw a deer carcass in a corn field and perched atop it was a beautiful bald eagle. Yes, they do scavenge carcasses. I got a couple of pictures but the old bird got suspicious and took off. So did I.
When I finally got back home, it was getting dark. I got a lesson in how to operate my computer from Emily, watched a couple of shows we DVRed last night, ate supper and made the decision to almost finish the bathroom tonight and not have to face it in the morning.
So I did.
Tomorrow I tackle the floors. And finish the bathroom.
Friday, February 28, 2014
Thursday, February 27, 2014
It really is Grand
I cried when I saw the Grand Canyon
I just stood on the North Rim, looking out and completely teared up. I was 53 years old and was seeing it for the first time.
Jack and I drove out to Estes Park, Colorado, to visit Rick and Kathy, friends of hers from high school. We all then took a road trip from their Colorado house to the canyon.
When I looked out of the window at the north Rim Lodge and saw the colors, and the depth, it was like a dream come true. For years I had seen pictures, imagined its beauty and hoped I could get there.
And there I was, looking at one of nature's wonders.
That night a ranger led us on a hike out to a point. A bunch of us trooped along with flashlights. We got to the end and he pointed out cities that glittered in the dark like stars in the sky. And the stars were amazing. Quite an experience.
The next day I decided to venture on the same trail in the daytime just to see what it looked like in the light.
I almost cried a second time.
Not for the beauty, but for the sheer terror of looking down and seeing.......well, a hell of a lot of air.
Where were the guard rails? The fences?
I hit a part in the path where there was a rock on one side and nothing on the other.
Understanding my fear of heights, you can appreciate why I put my back against the rock wall and shuffled sideways.
People with little kids and grandmothers were walking past me, staring at me! I could hear the laughter in their minds!!
It's terrible when little kids laugh and point. Lesson learned.
Kathy came past and said, "Terry, are you all right? You look a little pale."
I told her I was fine and said she didn't have to wait for me. Fifteen minutes later when she passed me coming back, she offered to help me.
But I was determined to make it out to the viewing area. On my own.
I made it out to the end. Breathing several deep sighs of relief, I looked out over the canyon for what seemed like a long time.
Then I headed back.
I reached the rock but this time I merely walked close to it, making sure one hand was on the rock wall the whole way.
We were gone 40 minutes at night. I was gone over an hour during the day.
When I got back I was thirsty, shaky, hot, and had to pee.
But I had seen the canyon.
A few days later Jackie had a torn retina and we had to abandon the rest of the vacation and drive straight home.
Not the best way to end a trip, but life happens sometimes.
I just stood on the North Rim, looking out and completely teared up. I was 53 years old and was seeing it for the first time.
Jack and I drove out to Estes Park, Colorado, to visit Rick and Kathy, friends of hers from high school. We all then took a road trip from their Colorado house to the canyon.
When I looked out of the window at the north Rim Lodge and saw the colors, and the depth, it was like a dream come true. For years I had seen pictures, imagined its beauty and hoped I could get there.
And there I was, looking at one of nature's wonders.
That night a ranger led us on a hike out to a point. A bunch of us trooped along with flashlights. We got to the end and he pointed out cities that glittered in the dark like stars in the sky. And the stars were amazing. Quite an experience.
The next day I decided to venture on the same trail in the daytime just to see what it looked like in the light.
I almost cried a second time.
Not for the beauty, but for the sheer terror of looking down and seeing.......well, a hell of a lot of air.
Where were the guard rails? The fences?
I hit a part in the path where there was a rock on one side and nothing on the other.
Understanding my fear of heights, you can appreciate why I put my back against the rock wall and shuffled sideways.
People with little kids and grandmothers were walking past me, staring at me! I could hear the laughter in their minds!!
It's terrible when little kids laugh and point. Lesson learned.
Kathy came past and said, "Terry, are you all right? You look a little pale."
I told her I was fine and said she didn't have to wait for me. Fifteen minutes later when she passed me coming back, she offered to help me.
But I was determined to make it out to the viewing area. On my own.
I made it out to the end. Breathing several deep sighs of relief, I looked out over the canyon for what seemed like a long time.
Then I headed back.
I reached the rock but this time I merely walked close to it, making sure one hand was on the rock wall the whole way.
We were gone 40 minutes at night. I was gone over an hour during the day.
When I got back I was thirsty, shaky, hot, and had to pee.
But I had seen the canyon.
A few days later Jackie had a torn retina and we had to abandon the rest of the vacation and drive straight home.
Not the best way to end a trip, but life happens sometimes.
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
Up on the roof.....
Heights really bother me
I did not realize how much until a shingle or two came loose on our very first house. I put a ladder up on the back porch, climbed on the roof with my hammer in hand and nailed the loose suckers down with roofing nails. Then I sat there for 15 minutes, petrified. I was afraid to move. The smell of food finally lured me down.
Jackie did ask if she needed to call the fire department, but I did not want to expose myself to more ridicule than necessary.
We had a foreign exchange student from France when Emily has in high school. We took her downtown to the Hancock building. As soon as we stepped off the elevator, I glued myself to the wall surrounding the elevator bank and inched my way around the observation deck.
What happens? Glad you asked. I get dizzy. I break out in sweats. I giggle. And I can't shut up.
Which meant while the rest of them were off looking at the gorgeous view from the top, I was blubbering, apparently to myself, and sweating like an idiot. No wonder some people reported me to security.
I try to be brave. I can now climb the wooden observation deck on IL 20 on the way to Galena. For years I would only make it up one landing.
And the last time we camped on Isle Royale, I made it to the top of the fire tower. Don't ask me how. I think my eyes were closed the entire walk up.
I also climbed an observation tower in Door County. I think. I remember looking out and I was on top.
The open grid stairs are the worst. I always have the sensation I am falling.
Julia took us to an area in Switzerland for a walk in a gorge. We had to pay admission and were comforted by the signs that said the property had been inspected for safety. In 1988! Nothing like going15 years without an inspection to instill confidence.
Initially, it was a pleasant climb. There was a family of four...teenage son and daughter, mom and dad..... who passed us like we were standing still. They were bravely tramping up the side of the gorge.
Now, the gorge was pretty steep. The way up was iron open grid stairs that were affixed to the side of the rock. Standing on the stairs, you looked down into the river. We kept climbing, slower and slower, until we reached a particularly steep climb about one fourth of the way up.
The overly confidant, athletic family came steaming past us....ashen faced, shaky, and in a big hurry. I think the kids were crying...but that might have been me.
We continued. We reached a bridge over the gorge and I looked up. Literally, I could hear Zeppelin playing "Stairway to Heaven." These open grid iron stairs last inspected in 1988 kept climbing and climbing and....... we turned around and went back.
Every time I looked down, it was as if the earth was spinning beneath my feet.
I'm OK in an airplane. Three years ago I actually rode a ski gondola in Switzerland and was a bit woozy, but kept taking pictures to keep my mind off of where I actually was.
And then there's the Grand Canyon incident....
Some stories are best left for later.
I did not realize how much until a shingle or two came loose on our very first house. I put a ladder up on the back porch, climbed on the roof with my hammer in hand and nailed the loose suckers down with roofing nails. Then I sat there for 15 minutes, petrified. I was afraid to move. The smell of food finally lured me down.
Jackie did ask if she needed to call the fire department, but I did not want to expose myself to more ridicule than necessary.
We had a foreign exchange student from France when Emily has in high school. We took her downtown to the Hancock building. As soon as we stepped off the elevator, I glued myself to the wall surrounding the elevator bank and inched my way around the observation deck.
What happens? Glad you asked. I get dizzy. I break out in sweats. I giggle. And I can't shut up.
Which meant while the rest of them were off looking at the gorgeous view from the top, I was blubbering, apparently to myself, and sweating like an idiot. No wonder some people reported me to security.
I try to be brave. I can now climb the wooden observation deck on IL 20 on the way to Galena. For years I would only make it up one landing.
And the last time we camped on Isle Royale, I made it to the top of the fire tower. Don't ask me how. I think my eyes were closed the entire walk up.
I also climbed an observation tower in Door County. I think. I remember looking out and I was on top.
The open grid stairs are the worst. I always have the sensation I am falling.
Julia took us to an area in Switzerland for a walk in a gorge. We had to pay admission and were comforted by the signs that said the property had been inspected for safety. In 1988! Nothing like going15 years without an inspection to instill confidence.
Initially, it was a pleasant climb. There was a family of four...teenage son and daughter, mom and dad..... who passed us like we were standing still. They were bravely tramping up the side of the gorge.
Now, the gorge was pretty steep. The way up was iron open grid stairs that were affixed to the side of the rock. Standing on the stairs, you looked down into the river. We kept climbing, slower and slower, until we reached a particularly steep climb about one fourth of the way up.
The overly confidant, athletic family came steaming past us....ashen faced, shaky, and in a big hurry. I think the kids were crying...but that might have been me.
We continued. We reached a bridge over the gorge and I looked up. Literally, I could hear Zeppelin playing "Stairway to Heaven." These open grid iron stairs last inspected in 1988 kept climbing and climbing and....... we turned around and went back.
Every time I looked down, it was as if the earth was spinning beneath my feet.
I'm OK in an airplane. Three years ago I actually rode a ski gondola in Switzerland and was a bit woozy, but kept taking pictures to keep my mind off of where I actually was.
And then there's the Grand Canyon incident....
Some stories are best left for later.
Tuesday, February 25, 2014
Ah sleep...perchance to dream
I am having trouble getting enough sleep
I stay up to late. I am sleeping in too late.
Even when I was in high school, I liked staying up late. I loved watching Jack Parr and Johnny Carson...then when they were over I frequently would turn on the radio.
I think it was Franklin McCormack, I know that is not how it was spelled. He used to do a show on WGN late at night and into the morning. He would play jazz, read poetry, his sonorous voice keeping me company in the wee hours of the day.
I did go to school, but lots of times I was a tired guy.
I have the same problem now. I usually don't get to bed until midnight or later. The last few mornings I have been up early (ok, 8 may not seem early to you working people). Now you would think I am getting enough sleep, but with the nightmares, trips to the bathroom (thank you, God, for inventing prostates), and worrying about not getting enough sleep, I find myself tired.
I need to break the habit.
In the past month I have slept in several times. The whole day is screwed up when you roll out of bed at 10 a.m. and eat breakfast. That means lunch is mid afternoon and dinner is way late....all because I wanted to play one more game of solitaire, or finish a show, or read the news, or visit Facebook.
So starting tonight, I am going to bed a little earlier each night. Then maybe I can awaken at a decent hour and be a little more productive.
But I have to check Facebook and play one more game before I go.
I stay up to late. I am sleeping in too late.
Even when I was in high school, I liked staying up late. I loved watching Jack Parr and Johnny Carson...then when they were over I frequently would turn on the radio.
I think it was Franklin McCormack, I know that is not how it was spelled. He used to do a show on WGN late at night and into the morning. He would play jazz, read poetry, his sonorous voice keeping me company in the wee hours of the day.
I did go to school, but lots of times I was a tired guy.
I have the same problem now. I usually don't get to bed until midnight or later. The last few mornings I have been up early (ok, 8 may not seem early to you working people). Now you would think I am getting enough sleep, but with the nightmares, trips to the bathroom (thank you, God, for inventing prostates), and worrying about not getting enough sleep, I find myself tired.
I need to break the habit.
In the past month I have slept in several times. The whole day is screwed up when you roll out of bed at 10 a.m. and eat breakfast. That means lunch is mid afternoon and dinner is way late....all because I wanted to play one more game of solitaire, or finish a show, or read the news, or visit Facebook.
So starting tonight, I am going to bed a little earlier each night. Then maybe I can awaken at a decent hour and be a little more productive.
But I have to check Facebook and play one more game before I go.
Monday, February 24, 2014
It's a hot time in the old town tonight
I am not always successful at first impressions
I know, my rapier like wit and general charm are usually overwhelming, but I was reminded today that I sometimes can rank a little low on first impression.
Years ago, friend John came out to visit. He brought a girl with him. This girl was special to him and he wanted her to meet us.
Big mistake.
I suggested we go out to dinner, a romantic little country restaurant near Clare. I think the name was George's Manor....but I could be wrong.
I drove, which has nothing to do with the story except I forgot there was a no passing zone just west of Creston and I passed, going up hill, scaring the bejeebers out of everyone, but we didn't have an accident.
The restaurant was nice, from what I remember. Small, intimate, old fashioned....like dining in someone's living room, which it may have been. Wood paneling on the walls....very rural.
We were making conversation. John was on one side of me, Jackie on the other and Kathy across.
Each table had a candle in the center and ours was blazing away. We continued to talk and meals appeared. There was also a bread basket on the table, near me. It was a wicker basket with paper towels hanging over the side and it was filled with warm, delicious bread.
Being the nice person I am, I passed the bread basket over to Kathy.
That's when the fun began.
I guess I got a little too close to the candle because the basket suddenly erupted into a ball of flame.
I dropped it. The blazing basket was now between Kathy and me. Flames leaped off the table, dancing over our heads. (OK, maybe that is an embellishment.)
So I did what any quick thinking person would do: I tried to blow out the flames.
Ashes from the burning paper towels proceeded to cover Kathy's dinner. I blew again. The flames didn't seem to die down and people were starting to stare. (There may also have been some screaming...I think from me.)
John very calmly picked up his water glass and poured it on the burning basket.
The hostess saw this from the other side of the room and came rushing over.
"Is everything alright?" she asked, staring incredulously at the soggy mess of burned paper towels and ash that now cluttered the table.
"Yes, yes," I answered. "But our buns seem to be a bit soggy."
We never made it back to that restaurant. The food was good. It wasn't the embarrassment of setting fire to the bread.
George's Manor burned down just a few months later.
I had nothing to do with that, but I suspect a bread basket was involved.
And despite me, she stayed. We still go out to eat, but she always keeps an eye out for bread baskets and open flames, just to be safe.
I know, my rapier like wit and general charm are usually overwhelming, but I was reminded today that I sometimes can rank a little low on first impression.
Years ago, friend John came out to visit. He brought a girl with him. This girl was special to him and he wanted her to meet us.
Big mistake.
I suggested we go out to dinner, a romantic little country restaurant near Clare. I think the name was George's Manor....but I could be wrong.
I drove, which has nothing to do with the story except I forgot there was a no passing zone just west of Creston and I passed, going up hill, scaring the bejeebers out of everyone, but we didn't have an accident.
The restaurant was nice, from what I remember. Small, intimate, old fashioned....like dining in someone's living room, which it may have been. Wood paneling on the walls....very rural.
We were making conversation. John was on one side of me, Jackie on the other and Kathy across.
Each table had a candle in the center and ours was blazing away. We continued to talk and meals appeared. There was also a bread basket on the table, near me. It was a wicker basket with paper towels hanging over the side and it was filled with warm, delicious bread.
Being the nice person I am, I passed the bread basket over to Kathy.
That's when the fun began.
I guess I got a little too close to the candle because the basket suddenly erupted into a ball of flame.
I dropped it. The blazing basket was now between Kathy and me. Flames leaped off the table, dancing over our heads. (OK, maybe that is an embellishment.)
So I did what any quick thinking person would do: I tried to blow out the flames.
Ashes from the burning paper towels proceeded to cover Kathy's dinner. I blew again. The flames didn't seem to die down and people were starting to stare. (There may also have been some screaming...I think from me.)
John very calmly picked up his water glass and poured it on the burning basket.
The hostess saw this from the other side of the room and came rushing over.
"Is everything alright?" she asked, staring incredulously at the soggy mess of burned paper towels and ash that now cluttered the table.
"Yes, yes," I answered. "But our buns seem to be a bit soggy."
We never made it back to that restaurant. The food was good. It wasn't the embarrassment of setting fire to the bread.
George's Manor burned down just a few months later.
I had nothing to do with that, but I suspect a bread basket was involved.
And despite me, she stayed. We still go out to eat, but she always keeps an eye out for bread baskets and open flames, just to be safe.
Sunday, February 23, 2014
I think I'm getting emotional, again
I hate Olympic closing ceremonies
I love watching the Olympics. especially the winter ones. I tune in the summer games, but the winter games really capture my attention.
I love the features they do during the coverage: The Russian hockey team members who died in a plane crash, and the Jessica Gold adoption adventure were my favorites. I love the skiing, the snowboarding, the speed racing, the biathlon, the curling the ..... well, I think you get it. I love the winter games.
And these games were so amazing. A 15 year old skater capturing the world's attention, while a 17 year old countryman captures the gold. A mother of two, encouraged by her family to shoot for a medal one more time, this time succeeding in skeleton. The effort of the cross country skiers as they crossed the finish line in first or 27th, falling to the ground exhausted and elated at the same time. Teenagers from every country, competing on a world stage...and winning medals of every color. The frustration of Shani Davis and other US speed skaters as medals eluded them in every race.
And the floor of the stage for the opening and closing ceremonies....amazing technology.
I love the hope and optimism reflected in the games. Nations competing without violence.. The hundreds of young children taking part in the opening and closing ceremonies. All the bonds and friendships the athletes formed. The fellowship of nations on display as we all wish it would be everywhere, everyday.
All those reasons, and more, is why I hate the closing ceremonies. It signifies an end.
I also realize I will almost be 70 when the next winter games begin in South Korea. 70. To even type that is depressing as hell.
The closing spectacular...and I mean that in a good way...it was spectacular....is over.
The flame is out, on its way to South Korea. The stadium is empty. The announcers quiet. The athletes are returning home, some to begin training for another shot at the gold. Some will be retiring, never having achieved the gold they have worked so hard to hang around their necks, but not quite making it.
In four years the youth of the world will be assembling in South Korea. They will once again pursue their dreams. Some will win, some will fall.
They will once again deliver the message of a society of peace, tolerance and respect. Someday, we will listen.
Like Misha the bear, I too am sad...and maybe a little teary.
I love watching the Olympics. especially the winter ones. I tune in the summer games, but the winter games really capture my attention.
I love the features they do during the coverage: The Russian hockey team members who died in a plane crash, and the Jessica Gold adoption adventure were my favorites. I love the skiing, the snowboarding, the speed racing, the biathlon, the curling the ..... well, I think you get it. I love the winter games.
And these games were so amazing. A 15 year old skater capturing the world's attention, while a 17 year old countryman captures the gold. A mother of two, encouraged by her family to shoot for a medal one more time, this time succeeding in skeleton. The effort of the cross country skiers as they crossed the finish line in first or 27th, falling to the ground exhausted and elated at the same time. Teenagers from every country, competing on a world stage...and winning medals of every color. The frustration of Shani Davis and other US speed skaters as medals eluded them in every race.
And the floor of the stage for the opening and closing ceremonies....amazing technology.
I love the hope and optimism reflected in the games. Nations competing without violence.. The hundreds of young children taking part in the opening and closing ceremonies. All the bonds and friendships the athletes formed. The fellowship of nations on display as we all wish it would be everywhere, everyday.
All those reasons, and more, is why I hate the closing ceremonies. It signifies an end.
I also realize I will almost be 70 when the next winter games begin in South Korea. 70. To even type that is depressing as hell.
The closing spectacular...and I mean that in a good way...it was spectacular....is over.
The flame is out, on its way to South Korea. The stadium is empty. The announcers quiet. The athletes are returning home, some to begin training for another shot at the gold. Some will be retiring, never having achieved the gold they have worked so hard to hang around their necks, but not quite making it.
In four years the youth of the world will be assembling in South Korea. They will once again pursue their dreams. Some will win, some will fall.
They will once again deliver the message of a society of peace, tolerance and respect. Someday, we will listen.
Like Misha the bear, I too am sad...and maybe a little teary.
Saturday, February 22, 2014
If at first you don't succeed
My dad sold the family car weeks before my 16th birthday. I think that was an omen. He didn't like to drive, and my mother could not, so the car was sold.
I think he did it to prevent me from driving, or to avoid taking me driving.
I took driver's ed in high school and did very well. But when my 16th birthday rolled around, I had no car to take a driver's test.
All was well .... I rode the bus and double dated. Who am I kidding, I never really dated. But when I did, we rode the bus. Usually, I only had one date with a girl. I blame it on the bus and not my stellar personality.
When I was 17, my sister in law to be took me for my license. She had an Olds, if I remember, and it had power brakes.
I did a practice run, and every time I stopped everything on the seats or rear deck would become air born. But I felt confident. Positive. I knew I could do this.
In Chicago, you take the road test on a little specially designed set up. The road is about 10 feet wide, but it has crosswalks, stop signs, curbs, the whole ball of wax.
I got in the car, checked the mirrors, and looked all directions, then put it in drive. As we rocketed up to 10 miles per hour, I approached a stop sign. So I hit the brakes.
The examiner almost went through the windshield. It did not get any better. Bad turns, rough stops, and a no passing grade from the examiner.
Fast forward one year. I still don't have a car to practice, so my brother Carl takes me out in his...no power brakes, which was fine with me. I drive a little, getting the feel of the car. Felt fine, confident, and ready to go.
Head up to Elston Avenue to the DL bureau, take the written test, take the road test...but not in Carl's car. I used a friend of the family's car, and I was not familiar with it. And the guy would not let me drive to the DL. But I gave it a go.
Stop at the stop sign. Nicely done. Move into traffic. Fine. Make a left turn. Excellent.
Do a three point turn.
No problem. Pull in, back up, pull out and bump over a curb.
"Oops," I say with a nervous laugh as the examiner makes a note.
Time for a right turn. Bump over another curb.
"You know you just went over a curb," he says, as if I'm an idiot and can't tell the car just bounced eight inches in the air.
"Well, we're both pretty damn lucky it wasn't a pedestrian," I joke. He makes notes.
At age 18, I didn't even try. As a matter of fact, I did not drive a car again until my sophomore year in college. Jackie let me drive her dad's car and even took me for the test. But we did it in DeKalb, on a weekday when she convinced her dad to let her borrow the car and bring it to school for some reason.
Being on a real street made all the difference. At 21, I finally had a license.
So, what's the fact?
I flunked my driver's license test. Twice.
I think he did it to prevent me from driving, or to avoid taking me driving.
I took driver's ed in high school and did very well. But when my 16th birthday rolled around, I had no car to take a driver's test.
All was well .... I rode the bus and double dated. Who am I kidding, I never really dated. But when I did, we rode the bus. Usually, I only had one date with a girl. I blame it on the bus and not my stellar personality.
When I was 17, my sister in law to be took me for my license. She had an Olds, if I remember, and it had power brakes.
I did a practice run, and every time I stopped everything on the seats or rear deck would become air born. But I felt confident. Positive. I knew I could do this.
In Chicago, you take the road test on a little specially designed set up. The road is about 10 feet wide, but it has crosswalks, stop signs, curbs, the whole ball of wax.
I got in the car, checked the mirrors, and looked all directions, then put it in drive. As we rocketed up to 10 miles per hour, I approached a stop sign. So I hit the brakes.
The examiner almost went through the windshield. It did not get any better. Bad turns, rough stops, and a no passing grade from the examiner.
Fast forward one year. I still don't have a car to practice, so my brother Carl takes me out in his...no power brakes, which was fine with me. I drive a little, getting the feel of the car. Felt fine, confident, and ready to go.
Head up to Elston Avenue to the DL bureau, take the written test, take the road test...but not in Carl's car. I used a friend of the family's car, and I was not familiar with it. And the guy would not let me drive to the DL. But I gave it a go.
Stop at the stop sign. Nicely done. Move into traffic. Fine. Make a left turn. Excellent.
Do a three point turn.
No problem. Pull in, back up, pull out and bump over a curb.
"Oops," I say with a nervous laugh as the examiner makes a note.
Time for a right turn. Bump over another curb.
"You know you just went over a curb," he says, as if I'm an idiot and can't tell the car just bounced eight inches in the air.
"Well, we're both pretty damn lucky it wasn't a pedestrian," I joke. He makes notes.
At age 18, I didn't even try. As a matter of fact, I did not drive a car again until my sophomore year in college. Jackie let me drive her dad's car and even took me for the test. But we did it in DeKalb, on a weekday when she convinced her dad to let her borrow the car and bring it to school for some reason.
Being on a real street made all the difference. At 21, I finally had a license.
So, what's the fact?
I flunked my driver's license test. Twice.
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