When I was 16 years old I learned to drive. I took the Driver Education course at De La Salle High School in New Orleans. I went through everything and my dad told me that I couldn’t drive until I was 18 years old. He knew that he shouldn’t try to negotiate some things and this was one of them. He was really disappointed.

When I turned 18, I was the designated “go for” driver. Charles, you’re going for this. Charles, you’re going for that. Charles, do you want to go to dinner? Charles, you’re going for… Well, you get the idea. One day I went for Popeye’s Chicken. they have the better never onion rings.

As I was pulling out of the parking lot, I reversed the grenade and crashed into the concrete base of a utility pole. I have the moved position. I got out and examined the damage to the car. The passenger side rear quarter panel had been shifted to the rear door panel, which had been shifted to the front door panel, which had been shifted to the front quarter panel. There was no way he could help but tell Dad what had happened to his car. I went home with my last meal. He was determined not to look like a man on death row.

Now you need to understand my dad. He’s not like other dads and after I got through my first two decades, I finally realized what a great guy he really was. I talk to him on the phone at least once a month and make sure he knows I love him. I’m sure he loves me.

At 18, I was still convinced that my father could love me very much and kill me at the same time. He had only spanked me 3 times in my entire life and he had never hit me. Not letting him down wasn’t necessarily my strong point, but I had a nagging feeling that I shouldn’t come home. I could eat all the chicken and onion rings on my way out of town.

After dinner I went up to my dad. He was sitting outside watching the birds and drinking a beer. I sat next to him in one of those aluminum folding chairs. He yelled at me and I thought it sounded like he was saying, “Guilty.” I bare my soul When I was 18 he was 6 feet 7 inches tall in my bare feet. He had been playing basketball for 3 hours every day since he was 14 years old. He was not behind me.

I was close enough to Dad to get thrown across the yard and he was strong enough to knock me unconscious before hitting the ground. I’m sure he would have easily cleared the fence and landed in the next yard.

I’ve never been able to confirm it, but I think Dad always suspected that I was hiding a lot of my flaws from him. He was correct. One thing that a Christian Brothers school like De La Salle teaches young people is how to be very misleading. When I got into trouble, I think a part of Dad felt a little proud that I wasn’t always that kid who got perfect grades for conduct.

After hearing my story of pain, he asked me if I was hurt. I replied, “No. The only damage is to the car, but the passenger side car doors couldn’t be opened anymore.” He smiled. I guessed that he was so surprised by my story that he had gone mad with rage. The repair would easily cost $800. It is not a small sum for my father.

This was what he told me:
Charles, when I was 12 years old, I stole my dad’s Model A. I took it to a field and ripped the transmission out of the car. When your grandfather came out to rescue me, he just asked me how he was, he assessed the damage to the car and helped me tow it to the barn. He taught me that “anything” can be fixed, but sometimes humans can’t.

I had never driven a stock transmission vehicle, but I understood that breaking a transmission could mean that you shifted gears incorrectly and grounded the transmission gears. I understood what he was saying, but I had to dig my hole a little deeper. I replied:
Dad, I see what you’re saying, but you were 12 and grinding gears isn’t the same as what I did to your car.

Then he said between laughs:
Without sound. You don’t understand that I drove the Model A through a field and ran over a stump. When I stopped, the car and the transmission were no longer connected to each other.

I can only see a younger version of my grandfather shaking his head, wondering how my dad managed that.

So what did my 18 year old mind conclude from this story? What moral did I get from this? Of course, today I realize how many accidents I avoided by waiting until I was 18 to drive. But back then I mostly remember that dad could drive at 12 and I had to wait until I was 18!

It wasn’t until my mid-thirties that I realized what I had really said. She treasured his son more than she treasured a car. He still does it today. I’ve been told that he and his great-granddaughter are inseparable.