A memorable Christmas Eve

This isn't really a story about Christmas.  I just remember that happened on Christmas Eve.  Every Christmas Eve, we had an elaborate Christmas Eve Program orchestrated by Marianne and Olivia.  They are both theatrical and in-charge types and were really into the program.  I usually liked it, especially at the end when we made my dad cry.  I didn't like the rehearsals.  I also didn't like the cajoling that had to happen to get our brothers to participate.

One year on Christmas Eve my dad was going to move some cows from a field about 5 miles away from our house.  He asked me if I wanted to go.  I don't know how old I was but it must have been fairly young or he would have asked one of the boys.  As soon as they got old enough they were always the ones who went with him.  I'm not bitter.  I'm over it.  Maybe.

So perhaps I was 12 or 13?

We took horses in a horse trailer pulled behind my dad's old pick-up truck.  Marianne was mad at me for leaving in the midst of the Christmas Eve fight rehearsal.  I was happy to get out of there and happy to be going with my dad.  (Perhaps I could see the writing on the wall that I had these increasingly bigger brothers that were going to eclipse me as the one my dad took riding.)  I was riding my dad's bay Thoroughbred named Luke.  This would be a good spot for a picture but sadly, I don't have a picture of Luke.  Picture a pretty horse; that was Luke.  He's my favorite horse I ever rode.  (The fact that I was riding Luke has nothing to do with this story but I did love Luke.)  We gathered the cows and I was very cold.  My dad told me to drive the truck up the road and he'd bring the cows behind me so I could warm up.

I knew how to drive, just not a truck with a manual transmission.  I had driven the truck in the field before while my dad fed hay from the back but he'd always have it going then jump out and just have me steer.  I didn't know how to shift.

So (naturally, because he's my dad and I was 12 or 13) my dad explained quickly how to drive a stick shift.  I had no idea what he was talking about.  None.  But I pretended I did.  I think it had something to do with how cold I was and the fact that I wanted my dad to think I was "good help."  (One highlight of going riding with my dad was when we'd get home and he'd tell my mom I was good help.)

So I put Luke in the horse trailer and somehow got myself going down the road.  When I got to the point where I was supposed to wait for my dad, I pushed on the brakes and nothing happened.  I didn't know about pushing in the clutch too.  I pushed on the brakes again and again.  Nothing.  Then I hit a marker post because while trying to stop, I was also getting onto the shoulder of the road.  I kept going.  (The brakes wouldn't work!) I heard the sickening scraping of the marker post against the bottom of the truck, then the horse trailer.  Then the engine died.  Luckily I was off the road.  Unluckily there was a tell-tale flattened marker post in my wake.

Because I had nothing else to do I waited. (I certainly wasn't going to try driving again.) I looked in the rear view mirror at Luke and envied his peaceful equine life that didn't involve running over marker posts on the road.  I thought about my sisters and how I wished I'd stayed home with them and avoided all this trouble.

And I waited some more.

I heard the cows coming down the road but I didn't turn around.  I was filled with dread, anticipating my dad being really mad at me.

I was still facing forward when I heard him laugh.  My dad has a great laugh.  When we all get together I think our unspoken goal as siblings is to make our dad laugh.  I still remember the relief that flooded over me when I heard him laugh.  He saw the marker post.  He immediately guessed what had happened.

He didn't have me drive the rest of the day.

And I was glad.