The "Bo" ... is Back!

“The Bo” is Back

People ask all the time what it has been like to have a house full of teen-agers at the same time – all in various stages of growing up, worried about grades (well … most of them did), somebody always learning how to drive, or maybe figuring out how to stitch together a broken heart.

The learning to drive part is something with which I have strugged since I was 15 years old. I have never been a good driver. Yes, I have poor eyesight, and yes, I probably would have been labeled with Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD) if it had been around when I was younger. But, in reality, I think I just get distracted. And I am so grateful – so thankful – that, thus far, nobody has really had any serious accidents or accumulated speeding tickets.

I was fortunate, at age 15, to have a car given to me by my uncle, Robert Culp. He was a part of the Culp Piano & Organ family in Montgomery but had recently become a representative with Nabisco, so he traveled a lot. The car he gifted me was a 1984 Plymouth Colt, though there was no nameplate except the word “Turbo” written across the back hatch. This vehicle was a small, sporty little thing. It was white and shiny, with fire engine red interior. My dad installed a tape deck to accompany the AM/FM radio, and I was on my way.

Cheryl Corlee was my driver education teacher in 10th grade. She encouraged me to be cautious and careful at all times, and to avoid driving like they do in the movies. My mother, a State Farm agent, said that she would give me a “driver training discount” if I could pass the class.

The hard part was passing my driver’s test.

The first time I took the test, the state trooper barely let me out of the parking lot before making me turn around. He kept asking me if my foot was slipping off the clutch – the herky-jerky motions of the Colt must have been a jolt, even for a seasoned professional.

I studied the driving manual and memorized the laws. My sainted parents would take me to vacant parking lots and allow me to drive around, and would sometimes allow me to drive in our neighborhood. The second time I went to take the driver’s test, I took a different car – this time, one with an automatic transmission. But even my grandfather’s car didn’t do the trick. Different state trooper, different car, but I didn’t pass the test. This guy let me drive around a little more, though.

Finally, my parents sent me to a driving academy. The driving instructor was a nice lady, and she was very patient. After a few lessons, she accompanied me to the driving test. This time, I passed! But on the way home, in my excitement, I nearly rear-ended someone. That poor woman was screeching in the passenger seat, regretting that she had helped me earn a license.

With my new license, I hit the road in the Colt – now rechristened “The Bo”, since its only distinguishing mark said “Turbo”. The first order of business was to impale my car on a tree stump in our yard. I mean, I knew there used to be a tree there, but when my parents had it cut down, why was there such a large stump? My car just sat atop the stump and spun in the air.

It wasn’t long before I received not one, not two, but three speeding tickets, all on my pathway to high school. Maybe today I could get away with saying I was being profiled by the police, but at the time, I just could not learn my lesson about following the posted speed.

My junior year was barely underway – actually, it was right around mid-August, I think -- when I had my first wreck. I was working at the grocery store and heading home for a lunch break. I looked down at the cassette player and next thing I know, I am crashing into the car of a girl I knew from school, who crashed into an old lady who was in front of her. The front end of the Bo was severely damaged, and had to be towed. Since I was brand new at driving, my insurance coverage had not yet kicked in.

When we finally made it home after the ordeal, there was a cruel irony: the real, plastic driver’s license was in the mailbox. I still had the paper copy; after all, I had only been licensed for six weeks.

In summary: boy, am I glad that my bad driving skipped a generation! The BirdKids have seemed to master safe driving skills and for all the pain and suffering I caused my own parents, I hope it was worth it to have so many drivers on the road doing right!

Michael Bird is an assistant professor of music at Faulkner University.