I don’t know how long it took Aunt Eleanor to teach Mother to drive. It was days and days of watching them buck down the long drive to the crossbar, turn toward the Red Eye, and weave along the big road. At least once, I heard an oncoming car honk long and angry. She must have been driving down the middle of the road.
Mother was driving.
Imagine that.
Eleanor Rose used every dog-training skill she ever had to keep Mother from running into a ditch, or into a telephone pole, or through the fence and across the pasture. Eleanor was a woman of great faith.
The first time they invited me to ride with them, I said, “What about her driver’s license?” I remembered she never had one back home. Mean Grandmother drove us everywhere, and after that I had to bike to the store and school. “What if a policeman stops us?”
“We’ve got my driver’s license,” Eleanor said. “Other than the wimple and glasses, they will never know the difference.” They both laughed, remembering a time when they could fool everybody. “But don’t worry, everybody up here knows my blue van. You won’t get pulled over.”
I was less worried about getting pulled over and more worried about running off the road, through the fence, and into a Longhorn bull. I couldn’t think of a good reason to stay back, but Bunny was no fool, he flat refused to get in the van with Mother behind the wheel. He peered up at her, then twirled and trotted back to the porch, where he flopped down between the rocking chairs. There are certain advantages to being a pig.
We made it safely to the Red Eye, and in time, Mother and I made the trip by ourselves, Aunt Eleanor standing on the porch waving proudly as we rolled away.
Most mornings, Mother would drive in silence. Eleanor had shown her how to drive a few extra miles past the Red Eye. She hadn’t seen as much of the Hill Country as I had and she was still absorbing the stark beauty of the rocks and twisty trees. Looked like photos of the Holy Land, she said.
Once my medical records came in the mail, Eleanor taught Mother how to make an appointment to get the rest of my shots and how to register me for school. That was a bit ambitious, if you ask me, but they didn’t ask me.
The next thing I knew we were driving down to the city, Mother at the wheel, no less, all the way down the highway for an hour and into town, stoplights and all. Aunt Eleanor sat up front and wasn’t the least bit frightened, not even when Mother stopped at the green light and almost went through the red. In a calm voice Aunt Eleanor started to give her directions long before the intersections, saying red means stop, green means go, instead of assuming Mother was on top of it.
We parked in front of the clinic. Mother had to back out and come in straighter, and then all of us got out and walked in the clinic door. Aunt Eleanor expected Mother to handle all of the talking and paperwork, which she did just fine. She was even conversational with the doctors, nurses, and receptionist. Eleanor had given her some topics to discuss: the weather, my school, peaches.
I got two shots in my bottom, because the nurse said my arms were too skinny. I didn’t like that at all. Not the shots, and not being called scrawny. But I didn’t say a word.
I marveled as Mother pulled out my medical records and made sure the doctor updated my shot report and signed his name. She thanked everybody personally and took my arm to leave.
Eleanor had that little thin-lipped smile all the way to the van. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she had given Mother a dog treat as a reward, but she didn’t.
A few days later Eleanor gave Mother directions to the school so that Mother could visit and make sure I was registered properly. Eleanor looked over the papers and nodded. Again, she stood proudly on the porch and waved as we drove away from the peach trees, to find what would be my new school. As we passed under the Paradise Ranch sign, Mother laughed and said, “Look at us. I feel like I’m going to school to take a final exam.”
She was, and she passed.