The snow fell in heavy, wet flakes, blanketing the high school parking lot in a pristine layer of white.
I was 16, fresh with my learner’s permit and a mix of excitement and terror about driving in winter weather. My Papaw, a man whose wisdom often masqueraded as mischief, sat in the passenger seat of our old Chevy sedan with a grin that promised trouble.
“Alright, take her out there,” he said, gesturing to the wide-open lot.
I squinted at him. “What? It’s snowing!”
“Exactly. Better you learn now than on the road. Trust me.”
Reluctantly, I pulled the car forward, the tires crunching softly against the snow.
“Now, speed up,” he instructed.
“Speed up? Papaw, are you sure?”
“Just do it.”
I pressed the gas hesitantly, the car picking up speed. When we reached what felt like the limit of my comfort zone, Papaw said the words I never thought I’d hear:
“Now slam the brakes.”
“What?!”
“Slam ’em!”
With a deep breath, I stomped on the pedal. The car lurched, then slid, the tires skidding helplessly over the ice hidden beneath the snow. My hands gripped the wheel like a lifeline as the back end of the car started to fishtail.
“Feel that?” Papaw said calmly. “That’s what losing control feels like. Now steer into the slide, nice and easy.”
Heart pounding, I turned the wheel gently in the direction of the skid. Slowly, the car straightened out, coming to a stop.
“Good,” he said, nodding in approval. “Now let’s do it again.”
We spent the next hour sliding, spinning, and learning. Papaw made me brake hard, accelerate too fast, and even take sharp turns—everything I’d been told never to do. At first, I thought he was crazy, but with each pass, I started to understand the car’s movements. I learned how to feel the road—or lack of it—and how to stay calm even when things got hairy.
By the time we left the lot, I felt like a different driver. The snowstorm didn’t seem so intimidating anymore.
Years later, whenever I find myself driving through a blizzard or hitting an icy patch, I think of that day. Instead of panic, I feel prepared. Papaw had given me the gift of experience in a controlled environment, where mistakes didn’t mean catastrophe.
He may have seemed reckless to my teenage self, but now I realize he was teaching me one of the most important lessons of my life: how to stay in control, even when everything around you feels like it’s spinning out.
