Chapter 1: Driver Ed

My name is Ed Brown, but most people call me Driver Ed. It’s a nickname I carry with pride, earned over many years of teaching nervous teenagers and cautious adults how to navigate the road. Today, I find myself in a local furniture store, running my hand over the smooth wood of a rocking chair. I'm trying to decide which rocking chair to buy. Its gentle creak seems to echo the years etched into my face, a lifetime of stories rattling around in my mind like loose change in a cup holder.
That piece of furniture reminds me of life’s constant motion, even in stillness. It’s funny how something as simple as a rocking chair can transport you back. Standing there, memories flood back, each linked to a student, a car, and a moment on the open road that I never thought would remain with me. I think of the laughter, the fears, and the triumphs of how an inexperienced driver’s face lights up after conquering parallel parking or the nervous chatter that fills the silence during a lesson. Those moments, though fleeting, have a way of sticking with you. They’re woven into the fabric of who I am, equally as much as the rocking chair is part of the store.
I remember those days and the people who made them unforgettable. “When you’re old like me, the first thing that goes is your memory……and I can’t remember the second thing, ha-ha.” But somehow, the recollections of those years in the Driver-Ed car and classroom stick with me, perhaps because they were some of my life’s most vibrant and unpredictable moments. Because these are my memories, they might be a little off from the actual story, but mainly, they are true. I changed the students’ names to protect the innocent and the guilty.

I’ve spent a good chunk of my life in the front passenger seat of a Driver-Ed car, my foot hovering over the brake pedal while I guide wide-eyed, anxious students with their shaky hands on the wheel through the unpredictable and often chaotic world of traffic. It wasn’t about teaching them to drive but about giving them confidence and watching them grow from uncertainty to self-assurance. Some would grip the wheel so hard that their knuckles turned white, while others laughed through their mistakes. Every lesson had its own rhythm, a mix of tension and laughter, near misses, and minor triumphs. The role of the driving instructor included acting as a kind of therapist; life’s difficulties often impacted our lessons. Many of my students carried burdens of family issues, academic pressures, boyfriend-girlfriend conflicts, or sports commitments; you name it, I have dealt with it. The weight of their insecurities and the turbulence of adolescence often hung in the air, making the car seem more like a confessional than a classroom. I listened to their worries while teaching them to navigate the road, offering reassurance and advice.