Driver Education… Country Style

In March of 1966, a baby boy was born to Robert and Brenda Little.

Now four years earlier they had been blessed with their first child — a beautiful little girl, Kathi. Kathi was the first grandchild, the blessing everybody wanted, and she had it made. But back in those days — and sometimes even today — even if God gives you a precious little girl first, deep down they couldn't wait for the first boy.

And that was me.

The first grandson. Grandpa was on cloud nine. He had a little buddy — someone to take fishing, someone to pal around with, someone to ride the tractor with, plow the garden, plant the garden, show how to plant the garden. You get the idea. Proud Papaw.

Now for those who don't know what an International Farmall Cub tractor is, let me explain. The Cub, as it's called, was made from the 1940s through the 1960s and is one of the best little tractors ever built. Perfect for laying off rows, it even had a planter that dropped seeds every 12 inches so your plants came up perfectly in line. Then you'd use it for cultivating — removing grass from beside your plants. Just great.

It's only about 10 horsepower, and it doesn't have a key. It has a small button down near your feet and a pretty big platform for your feet to rest on. To crank it, you pull out that little switch, then pull the starter rod next to the steering wheel. Push in the clutch, put it in gear, release the clutch, and off you go. Backing up is a little trickier — you push in the clutch, then push down on the gear shift while pushing it back and to the right. Simple, right?

I tell you all this because what Grandpa didn't know was that while he thought he was teaching me to ride and help plant the garden — just sitting on his lap — I was watching very carefully. Not about the garden.

About how to drive it.

Then came the day. It was a Sunday after lunch — notice the pattern — and I disappeared again. I was about 4 years old. Grandpa's house didn't have air conditioning, so the windows were always open to keep the house cool. While everyone was finishing up dessert, they heard the Cub engine fire up.

The race was on.

They all ran out of the house calling my name — not Kathi's, who was older — mine. They already knew it was me. And there I was, up on the platform of the Cub, standing up — because if I sat down my feet wouldn't reach the pedals — backing that Cub in reverse right out of the shed.

Before they could get to me, I had backed it out, turned it to the left, pushed the clutch back in, shifted into first gear, let the clutch out, and was driving straight toward them.

Mom and Grandma were about in tears.

Grandpa just stopped, folded his arms, and smiled ear to ear as I turned just enough to miss him and drove right on past.

From that day on, I was the tractor driver. All the time. Even when we picked up hay — that's when I got to drive the big tractor, a 6600 Ford diesel pulling a flat trailer. Eight gears, a high/low range, and an extra lever to make it even slower. It was moving at maybe 1 to 2 miles an hour.

But I was driving it. Everybody else was loading bales of hay on the trailer.

From there, as I got bigger, I graduated to — you guessed it — that 1969 Chevy pickup. Yes, the one somebody (hee hee) shot the window out of with a BB gun. I was driving it on the farm at 9 years old. But it was when Grandpa threw me the keys and told me to run down to Dad's place and get something — and I asked who would open the pasture gates — that Grandpa said, "Just go down the road."

Mom put her foot down on that one. Of course she did. She'd already put her foot down at our house when I pulled that truck up the driveway by myself.

Busted.

Now that I think about it, I never did take Driver's Ed. The only time I lived outside of North Carolina was when Dad was transferred to South Carolina for two and a half years to run a mill near Clemson University. I was 15. Down there, if you could pass the written test and the driving test, you could get a provisional license to drive from 7am to 6pm.

So I never took the class.

And what's really scary? At 16, I was driving two and a half hours up I-85 back home to see Grandma. By myself.

Driver Education… Country Style. 😄

Thanks for reading, and as always — do yourself a favor and take someone to church this Sunday.

Thank you again and God Bless. — Big PaPaw