Today’s trip down memory lane is going to require something of a leap, so if you’ll just stay with me, please . . .

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This bit of nostalgia was triggered by my virtual visit to the Feenstra farm in Nizhny Novgorod, Russia, where the family was celebrating the fourth birthday of one of the youngest members of their brood, Finlay. There were gifts — some lovingly handmade by his older siblings — and one of mom Anneesa’s special cakes, artistically decorated in a rather unusual teal-colored icing. And, of course, much merriment.

But dad Arend took time out from the festivities to attend to some business about the farm, and to discuss a bit of difficulty he had encountered in connection with his driver’s license. First there was the requirement for a special license to be able to drive his tractor on the public roads, which he said had not been a problem in Canada.

And then he explained that, in Russia, in order to drive a manual-shift vehicle, you have to pass your test on a manual-shift vehicle. If you are tested on a vehicle with automatic transmission, your license will be limited to driving only . . . well, you get it. And he thought that was crazy.

But it didn’t sound at all weird to me, because it brought back a memory of my own first driving test, about 100 years ago (or so it seems).

It was 1960. We were living in Washington, D.C., at the time, and I had just aced my driving course, except for repeated cautions from my instructor to keep both hands on the wheel and my elbow off the armrest. It seems I was a bit too relaxed.

But I was ready. And, because at that time D.C. regulations required — just as Russia does now — that you test on a manual transmission in order to be allowed to drive one — that is what I had decided to do, in case it ever became necessary.

I had enlisted a friend, who owned an older car with a stick-shift, to accompany me to the testing site. I had practiced with her car before, so I felt confident . . . until we arrived in the parking lot, where the examiner — an unsmiling, intimidating, drill-sergeant sort — parked our car at the starting point against a curb and ordered me to get in and drive.

And I started to shake. To begin with, that guy was scary. I like to greet new people with a smile and a bit of friendly chit-chat . . . but he wasn’t having any. And as I looked around, I realized that the parking lot was on a slight upgrade, at the top of which was a pedestrian sidewalk and the main street.

Now, although I had done well during my lessons, I had never been entirely comfortable with getting the feel of the clutch on an incline. And here I was, seated next to Attila the Hun, my left foot quaking like an Aspen leaf in autumn . . . headed uphill.

This was not good.

But jumping out of the car and running away was not an option; and bursting into tears wouldn’t have worked on the Hun. So I took a deep breath, pressed down on the clutch with my trembling left foot and the brake with my right, checked the rear-view and side mirrors, stuck my left arm straight out the open window to signal (I said it was an old car), moved my right foot to the accelerator, and . . .

. . . I popped the friggin’ clutch! The car lurched forward toward the sidewalk, where an unfortunate man had chosen that moment to cross my path. He looked up like a deer caught in headlights and took off like the proverbial bat out of hell (sorry about the mixed metaphors), as I — through some inborn instinct I didn’t know I had — hit the brakes, just in time to prevent a catastrophe.

Attila said nothing. I called out “Sorry” to the pedestrian, who I believe was saying a prayer of thanks to the deity of his choice. And then I turned toward the frozen figure seated next to me and said, quite ingenuously, “I flunked, didn’t I?”

Finally regaining his power of speech, he nodded his head and replied, “Yup.” As he got out of the car and hurried away, I believe I heard him mutter something resembling “Merciful God . . .”

As my friend drove us home, I decided it wasn’t really necessary for me to have that unrestricted license. I found another friend — one whose car boasted an automatic transmission — and passed my next test with flying colors. And — despite the subsequent lifting of that requirement — all of my cars since then have been automatics.

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As for Arend Feenstra, I have this to say: Don’t knock that regulation; there’s a very good reason for it. If you don’t believe me, just ask the pedestrian I nearly flattened back in 1960.

Everything’s funny in retrospect.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
7/8/25