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My first car was a 1986 Chevy Nova. But the first time I drove it, it still belonged to my grandparents, and my lack of experience was quite evident.
My granddad likes to remind me of that day and how I punched the accelerator, such that the engine pinged a bit, hesitant to smoothly go the speed I desired. The engine’s hesitancy matched my own.
Mom warned her dad that I might need to practice a bit more before driving him to work in Miami, but he thought this would be a great opportunity for me.
After a few final instructions, still sitting in the driveway of their very busy street, I proceeded to back out of the driveway the wrong way. Twice. After the second time, Granddad mercifully said, “Just drive around the block.”
Before I could complete the task of driving around the block, I had already provided more evidence of my poor driving skills. It didn’t matter that I couldn’t see around the bushes at the stop sign in order to turn right, back onto their street and get going the right direction. Nope. First, I needed to come to a complete stop behind the line, and then inch forward until I could clearly see.
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Her hands were wrinkled and marked with dark age-spots. They were often caked with dirt and marred by thorns as she tilled the soil and tended her garden. She only needed to run her hands through the dirt to know which plants would thrive and which would wither away. A simple tap of the soil with a single finger would signal to my grandma if her garden needed water.