CARLTON FLETCHER: Driving lessons sweet memories

Baby you can drive my car, and baby I love you.

— The Beatles

As I sat here in this massive building Sunday afternoon, temporarily unhooked from the metaphorical chain of the computer terminal — and that’s a good word — alone and waiting for inspiration to push me through another day, I happened to catch what appeared to be atypical movement out of the corner of my eye.

Puzzled at first, I watched out my second-floor window as a vehicle sat idling in the far-west lane of one-way Washington Street. A young gentleman — distance kept me from determining his age — was standing near the curb alongside Washington, talking with the person driving the car.

Then the car started backing into one of the parking spots along the street that, save for a random car every now and again, was all but deserted.

When I watched this out-of-the-ordinary action play out a few times, realization dawned on me. The gentleman was teaching the person in the car, most likely a teen driver, how to parallel park.

Intrigued, I watched as the gentleman stood at the window of the vehicle for short bursts, giving instructions to the driver. Satisfied that he’d gotten his point across, he’d step up onto the curb and watch as his charge attempted to pull into one of the parking spots. I laughed as I watched him, at times, make exaggerated circles with his hand, encouraging the driver to cut his or her wheel sharply.

I watched for a good 30 minutes, hoping against hope that the driver would get the mechanics, that his or her instructor’s lessons and exhortations were not in vain.

I was so intrigued because the parking lessons took me back to a time when my older daughter, Jordan, was 15 and anxious to start preparations for her driver’s license. She had started driving with me when she was 14, our favorite practice spot the expansive parking lot of Live Oak Elementary School. She’d get through with gymnastics classes at the Y, and we’d head across the street, where she gradually honed her skills.

Once Jordan had demonstrated satisfactory proficiency, I surprised her one evening by instructing her to drive home. She looked at me with a look that was part thrill, part terror, and we started the roughly 4-mile trip. Each time a car approached in the opposite, westbound lane, my daughter would take her foot off the gas quickly, tap the brakes and say, “What do I do?”

I offered the wisdom that I think inspired her: “Just keep driving.”

When Jordan actually got her learner’s permit and started driving regularly, I knew it was time for her to take on the parallel parking challenge. We started at spaces adjacent to what was then the Darton College (now Albany State University West Campus) tennis courts. I know we were a weird sight: I’d stand at the back corner of a parking space, representing a vehicle parked poorly in that space, and tell her hitting me would be the same as hitting a car.

She was, as we all were, nervous at first, and there were times that I had to duck out of the way quickly. I couldn’t be mad, though … the look on her face was priceless.

After Jordan mastered the art of parallel parking in what was a pretty tame environment, I put her to the real test. We headed to downtown Albany, where she started practicing her newly acquired skills on Jackson Street. Initially, I got out of the car to make sure we had no real-life fender-benders, but eventually she became good enough that I just sat in the passenger seat and watched her operate, my paternal pride near bursting.

I thought about those lessons as I watched this gentleman Sunday, and I realized that teaching my daughter to drive was maybe one of the coolest things I’ve done in my life. My son learned from his granddad — my father — and my younger daughter doesn’t trust me to teach her to drive. So I had that great moment once.

Which leads me to offer the gentleman whose efforts Sunday, quite frankly, did not appear to take very well: Dude, hang in there. Your student will get it. Just stay flexible and ready to jump when he or she doesn’t quite make the turn.

Email Carlton Fletcher at [email protected]. Follow him on Twitter @ABH_Fletcher.