Turning Sixteen
Because of my late-October birthday and the oddities of public school cut-off dates, I was always among the youngest students in my classes. I took driver’s education when I was in tenth grade, as did all of my peers. During the summer between tenth and eleventh I took my behind-the-wheel training, passed the written and behind-the-wheel tests, and received a temporary license . . . that I couldn’t actually use until my birthday several months later. I had all of the requisite training and skills required by the Commonwealth of Virginia to operate a motor vehicle, but I was still fifteen.
Some kids’ parents—especially up here on affluent northern Virginia—buy them brand new BMWs or Lexuses or fast little sports cars when they get their licenses. These cost a fortune to insure, and then the rates skyrocket when those kids immediately crash their fancy new cars into something. Other parents make a somewhat more prudent choice, buying Toyotas and Hyundais for their kids . . . which they also promptly crash. But down in little ol’ Bedford, Virginia, where I lived at the time, most parents made a more prudent choice (whether out of smarts or financial necessity) . . . most of my peers got cheap-ish used cars if they got anything. And it really is best to let new drivers start off with a piece of junk that won’t cost much to insure and won’t be any great loss if it gets in an accident.
In my case, as I approached my sixteenth birthday, my Uncle Scott made us an offer we couldn’t refuse. He was getting a new vehicle for himself, and would no longer need his 1978 Jeep J-10 ‘Honcho’ pickup. The truck was several years older than I was, got twelve miles-per-gallon on a good day, and didn’t have modern amenities like air conditioning or fuel-injection. And on top of that, it had undergone some . . . unusual modifications. It had shag carpeting on the interior of the doors. It had power-windows taken from an Oldsmobile or Buick or something, complete with a four-switch panel (for the truck’s two windows; the other two switches did nothing). And those windows would slam open with force and only inch their way toward closing.
But it ran. It would get me from point-A to point-B. And it resolved the somewhat open-question of whether I would get a car of my own at all. We got the truck, and on the day I turned sixteen I drove it to school while my mom dutifully took photos of me leaving the driveway. Earning the privilege of driving is one of the most important rites of passage for a teen, and I had achieved it . . . in a twenty year old Jeep pickup.
