I taught myself to drive a stick. When leaving church one Sunday, my brother wanted to take me out and show me. I know my brother well. In front of everyone so he could laugh? I refused.

At school the next day, I asked my cousin and his friends what and how. And then I waited. One night when no one was home, I took the car and went around and around the block. After 8-12 trips around, I was just about a pro.

The next day at school I had to get some more advice from my cousin because the car hiccupped just a bit I let the clutch out. I was “popping” the clutch he said. Let it out slower – feel it catch – then gradually let it go.

I went out another night around and around the block again. I still had to practice getting started on hills for another month or so. (It helps if you use the parking brake.) But unless on an incline, by the end of the second night, I shifted gears as smooth as silk.

The next Sunday came and brother put me in the drivers seat. I put on a great show: I protested and whined—it was the worst thing ever. Were my parents (in the station wagon with the other kids) going to let him humilate me like this? And they drove off. If I wanted a ride home I had to drive. SO I put the car in gear and drove out of the church yard gracefully. For the first and only time in our entire lives my brother was hacked. “Somebody’s been teaching you.” I still don’t know if he believes I taught myself.

I did kill the engine once on the way home – he got in laugh – but just a small one. (1) One. ;-)