Rural Driver’s Education - 1980's Style

by Angela Sanford

In a previous piece, I hinted that I may have visited one of my favorite local spots before I was legally allowed to drive. Did I? I can't deny it. I'd also hazard a guess that many others from my generation did the same. Maybe not to the beach, but many of us were behind the wheel long before we had a driver's license. Back then, it was simply part of growing up in the country.

Our family had a silver Ford Thunderbird with a sunroof, power windows, and what seemed like the most futuristic feature imaginable—a digital speedometer. That was the first vehicle I learned to drive. I spent hours going up and down our driveway, practicing backing up, turning around, and getting comfortable behind the wheel. I was fortunate that my grandparents lived next door, so their driveway effectively doubled the space I had to practice.

Once I had mastered the driveways and the hayfields around our house had been harvested, I graduated to driving through the fields. Wide open spaces made for forgiving classrooms.

The next step was a short trip onto Highway 215 to my aunt and uncle's house next door. They had a wraparound driveway, so I could drive from our place to theirs, circle around, head back up the road, pull into our driveway, cross over, continue down my grandparents' driveway, and repeat the loop. As long as traffic was quiet—and it almost always was—we were even allowed to have friends along for the ride.

Eventually came the big promotion: permission to drive up Highway 215 to Lil's (or the post office) at the end of Northfield Road and then back home. Lil's also had a wraparound driveway, which meant there was no need to back out onto the highway. Looking back, I realize my parents had agreed to every step to build confidence while keeping the risks as low as possible.

I spent countless hours making those drives with the music cranked, friends riding shotgun, and the windows down, waiting for the day I was finally allowed to take the car around the Point Road to the beach.

It was the 1980s. It wasn't unusual to drive from our house to the beach and back without seeing another vehicle in either direction. It felt rebellious, despite having my parents' approval. It was a taste of freedom, but still within carefully drawn boundaries. It was practice, but it also authentic. It was simply what growing up in rural Nova Scotia was like.

Did my own children have that same luxury? Not quite. Times had changed. But they each got a small taste of driving before earning their licenses.

We have a camp in the woods, and each of the boys learned to handle a vehicle on the camp road long before they could legally drive on public roads. I also hope they remember a boxing trip to Kansas City when they got another unexpected opportunity.

We had rented a vehicle for the trip and, to our surprise, were upgraded at no extra charge to a Dodge Charger. Naturally, the boys immediately started asking if they could drive it. My answer was an emphatic "No."

Or was it?

One morning, after a powerful overnight storm, the city was quiet. Trees blocked many streets, debris was scattered everywhere, and hardly anyone was out. We decided to take a drive to see the damage and find out which roads were still open.

Along the way, we came across an empty parking lot. It was deserted, and it was obvious no one else would be pulling in anytime soon. I looked around, smiled, and finally gave in.

Each of the boys took a very short turn behind the wheel. It lasted only a few minutes, but they each got to drive that Dodge Charger.

The conditions were perfect, the parking lot was empty, and, perhaps most importantly, Mom couldn't very well be seen as a hypocrite.

Looking back, it wasn't really about driving at all. It was about trust. Each driveway, each hayfield, and each quiet stretch of road represented another vote of confidence from the adults who believed we were ready for a little more responsibility. Today, things are different, and probably for good reason. But every time I hear an '80s song with the windows down, I can't help but smile. Somewhere in my mind, I'm still making another lap around the driveway, getting ready for future Friday nights when a driver's license meant freedom, when the country roads became our social scene and time was measured in a full tank of gas.