R is for Raised by Wolves

Okay, I've got another one, but this one was relayed by my sister. Years after I survived Vineyard summers on a limited budget and two wheels for transportation, my dad bought my sister a VW convertible. Oh, my brother and I rolled our eyes, she was always the spoiled one. Of course she'd be the one to get the sporty car at sixteen. Even from her toddler years, he called her Rab, short for the Rabbit, so this car definitely deserved a vanity plate. Seems that "THE RAB" was already taken, and because he didn't think quick on his feet (when it came to brainstorming license plates anyway) he chose "RAB1", which from afar made a reader wonder if my sister was a rabbi.  Not as slick as planned, but that was not my sister's main concern.

This car was a manual transmission, and though it was purchased just for her, there was no one around to teach her to drive it. It sat in the driveway for weeks until she couldn't take it anymore. While my parents were at work and my brother and I were off doing grown-up things, my sister grabbed the key from the drawer and started up the ignition. She yanked the clutch, reversed and rolled, until she was starting and stopping along a long stretch of road just below my our own street. It must have looked comical. At the very least, the sight was alarming. Because as she tells it, a construction worker spotted her weak attempts to teach herself to drive. She rolled down her window to this complete stranger, and the next thing she knew, he was sitting beside her, and she was following his guidance. At the end of the session, she could drive herself home without embarrassment.

"So who was that guy?" I asked my sister, even though I'd heard the story a few times before.

"No idea. I never saw him again."

Me, I never learned to drive stick. Why would I need to when I had the slickest bike in town?

Life lesson: Family is only the start of your education. Real world experience fills in the blanks.