The Curb
Grandmother was approaching middle age when grandfather decided it was time she learned to drive. After acquiring a temporary permit, they took to the road for a practice session, grandma sitting white-knuckled behind the wheel and Grandpa issuing instructions from the passenger seat. The lesson progressed uneventfully until grandpa happened to glance out his window and down. The wheels were passing just centimetres away from the curb. "Helen, watch out for the curb!" he exclaimed. This warning seemed to elicit little response from my grandmother, still hunched grimly behind the wheel. Indeed, the wheels crept even closer to the curb. Fighting to remain calm, he repeated his admonition. The wheels edged to within a hairs breadth of the curb. A collision seemed inevitable. Panic raised grandpa's voice to a roar, "Helen, the curb!" With a glare in my grandfather's direction grandmother carefully brought the car to a halt, switched off the ignition and turned huffily to face him and said angrily, "If you can drive any closer to the curb without hitting it, go ahead."
Originally published November 14, 2002.
