Joe takes his first trip without family

When we lived on Second Avenue our vehicle was a panel truck.  The outside was primer red and the inside smelled like wet cedar.  I think it was a Ford.
It had one seat for the driver, a kitchen chair for the passenger and wood stumps in the back for people to sit on.  By people, of course, I mean us kids.
Whenever my dad got behind the wheel I studied his every move and stored the information in my four year old brain: close the door, put in the key, press the black button that made the engine go, lean out the window to look for cars, spin the steering wheel.  That was called driving.  It was so easy he could even do it while smoking.  (Dad could do anything)
All the streets in Port Alberni were hilly, some more than others.  Our house on 2^nd Avenue was one place where you could park your car (panel van) on the street and fully expect to find it in the same location when you returned.
Our house was also in an area with lots of kids and lots of stay at home moms (and more than a few underemployed or shift-working dads) around to keep an eye on things.  We played outside because there was far less to do indoors and more kids to do it with outdoors.  We played, tagged, chased and explored, taught each other how to ride bikes, catch and pass a ball, and get off the street when a car came by.  We played “house”, and one day we played “car”.

The panel van had a sliding door that was very easy to open.  I climbed in and stood on the floor slightly to the left of the steering wheel.  I knew the drill: close the door (already done), put in the key (, no key, move on) press the black button that made the engine go (yep, made the engine sound), lean out the window to look for cars (too short, skip that step), spin the steering wheel (done).  That was me driving.  It was so easy I could even do it while smoking (but that was for older people like Mom and Dad and my oldest sister).
What now?
Repeat the steps.
Eventually I found that just pressing the black button gave me the noise and sensation of driving I wanted.  It also gave me the full attention of the kids in the neighbourhood.  The panel slide door was still open and kids were climbing in two and three at a time.  Some wanted to take the wheel but their attempts were met by a stern direction to “go sit down”.  The boy from two doors away, six year old Wolfgang, (I always called him Foxgang, I don’t know why) took his place in the kitchen chair beside me effectively becoming my co-pilot / navigator.

I could see a little over the dashboard and enough out the tops of the windows to know that the black button was making the panel truck jump ahead bit by bit.  I could see my passengers all carefully seated on their stump chairs at the back, wide eyed, quiet.  Pleasure of driving began to grow inside me as “grunk” after “grunk” of starter noise lurched the truck down the road, tiny bit by tiny bit.
The hill on 2^nd Avenue was gentle, at first, and wouldn't really begin for several dozen feet from where we were.  The sight of that slope was enough for my co-pilot / navigator Wolfgang to bolt the truck.  He had figured out what I could not even see.
“I’m telling,” he yelled.
I ignored him.
In a flash the driver door has flung open (good I can check for cars now) and a woman only vaguely known to me is telling me to get out.  Actually she is telling us all to get out.  My passengers fled and I ran the twenty feet or so back to my house to complain that Foxgang’s mom had kicked me out of the truck.
I never did learn how to smoke, but I did learn how to drive.