Our car has a manual transmission, a stick-shift, four-on-the-floor, actually six on the middle console, but that doesn’t have the same rhyme appeal. I had a 1958 Chevy Biscayne when I went to college, it had three-on-the-tree of course, people like lyrical stuff like that.

I’m sure many of you remember learning to “drive stick”. Whoever took on this instructional task most likely remembers it as well, and may still have lingering effects from the repeated whiplash they endured as their jerky voice tried to calmly spit out, “Give it some gas…not that much…ease out the clutch…EASE it out…start it up and try it AGAIN…”

Unlike standing on the porch and pointing out all the random swaths of grass that somehow evaded the notice of a lawn mower in training, teaching someone to drive stick is not a coffee drinking task.

I believe my Grandpa Ardell took on the task of teaching me to drive stick? By “teaching”, I mean that he stayed at a safe distance while I figured it out.

I was about 10-years old, and I was “helping” Grandpa and Uncle Tim repair some fence that bordered a stubble field. As I busied myself throwing dirt clods and rocks towards the general vicinity of my brother, they worked their way down the fence line. Eventually, they needed the pickup moved down the fence line as well.

Grandpa said, “Boys…Go get the pickup and bring it down by us.” Unlike most other requests, he didn’t have to repeat himself. We never passed up a chance to drive…or to fight…I won the footrace to the pickup, and the wrestling match in the cab, so I got to drive this time around.

I believe it was a blue Ford Club Cab? I remember the two tiny seats that faced each other in the club portion of the cab. It was an exclusive club, reserved for small children and limber adults. Small children that lacked the neck strength to keep their oversized heads from ricocheting between the back of the front seat and the back window as the driver lurched through the gears. So it goes.

Our son recently decided that it was time for him to learn how to drive stick. As a proponent of people limiting their limits, I was happy to set my coffee aside and ride shotgun. Rather than the preferred wide-open stubble field, we went to a wide-open parking lot before we kicked off the training wheels and took to the streets.

“Give it some gas…not that much…ease out the clutch…EASE it out…start it up and try it again…”

I always thought they should have a statement, suggestion, or warning on the rear bumper of vehicles with a manual transmission. Maybe, “Clutch In Use: Wide Berth On Incline Suggested.”

Although he might occasionally experience a little flop-sweat at a stoplight on an incline, Jackson is now a member of the stick shift club. One less limit in life.