I was a young boy when my dad decided it was time for me to learn how to drive. I am sure it had to be in the early sixties, when cars were different. They were huge cars then, the cars with the wild stylings, the tall tail fins on the back, the radios with AM only and no air conditioning. We had an old Chrysler, the kind with the huge tail fins. I remember our car having the push button transmission, instead of the column shifter. It was pretty simple, P R N D and L for low. Not that complicated, push a button, step on the gas and go.

The day was at hand, the family was in the car, parked in front of the house pointing down the driveway. Dad determined that it was time. I was going to be allowed to drive down the driveway to the street. I remember my mom being tense, not believing that Dad was going to let me do this.

My moment of trust had arrived. I started the car, with my dad sitting next to me, pushed the button, eased on the gas pedal, only to have the car lurch backward and hit the house. The car stopped just in time before destroying anything. I know my mom was frantic, my dad trying to keep everyone calm, and me, I was scared to death. I had let my dad down, hit the wrong button and backed into our house. Nothing was damaged, the car was built like a tank.

To this day, all I remember is the shock in knowing, that I hit the wrong button.