I belong to a certain generation where I learned how to drive a manual transmission. Like many rural kids, my driving lessons began years before formal driver’s education. On weekends, my dad let me grind the gears of his old Dodge pickup, testing his patience and the clutch, with a kind of terror that I can only imagine left him with heartburn. It’s not as if we had a spare truck and my father, to this day, is not known for his patience. Yet many Sunday afternoons were spent cruising the country roads of my northern Michigan childhood, panicking to select the right gear at the bottom of a hill and praying my dad wouldn’t make me start on a hill. I worried that I’d roll the truck into the car behind me, but luckily those roads – Church, Camp Daggett, Camp Sherwood – had little traffic to be of concern. I’m sure my dad knew this.
My first car wasn’t a manual but a large, bulky station wagon with an automatic transmission. But my dad kept me trained on a stick shift, and now, as I find that my minivan is out of commission and waiting for repairs, I’m grateful those lessons stuck. I’m married to a man who will only drive a stick, who’s fully aware that he’s part of a dying breed. I’m relieved that his truck, much newer than my dad’s dented Dodge, is much more forgiving to drive. Driving a stick shift requires much more focus than automatics, and I’m guilty of letting inertia and habit shape my driving habits. Admittedly, I’m less cautious and often more concerned with what’s on the radio than what’s happening on the lane next to me. The giant screen in my van rivals the earlier television set my grandma once had, and even though I often turn it off, it’s a serious distraction. Driving my husband’s pickup truck means I’m not messing with screens or sipping coffee. But I still worry as I shift into first on any sort of incline that I’ll roll backward. In the week since my car’s been in the shop, I’ve only stalled out a few times. Maybe five.
We do have a backup rig, which is mightily helpful on the days when I teach into the late afternoon so my husband does school pickup. It’s not the most ideal time of year to revive the 1977 Toyota since it lacks most comforts modern vehicles boast, such as cabin comfort heating and cooling, interior dome lights, and power steering. It doesn’t have air bags and its gear range is first through fourth. But, honestly, it’s a beauty. It’s loud and powerful. And I tell myself that I can skip arm day at the gym because without power steering, navigating turns and a parking lot takes serious effort. I’ve never been much of a car person. I was always thankful for a car that ran and enough money to fill the tank. But driving Cole’s classic car is a treat, even on the mornings when I wrap a scarf around my neck to ward off the cold on my way to work.
Since I’ve reacquainted myself with the manual transmission and the Land Cruiser that predates my birth, I’ve thought a bit about outdated skills or those that will soon be obsolete. When I mentioned my car repair woes and driving a stick once again, a friend did remind me that a lot of cars in other countries are manual, so were I to go on a vacation, I should find myself well-equipped for that task. When I asked her if she still uses a checkbook, she simply laughed. Registering the shock on my face she countered, bewildered: “Wait, you still write checks?”
I do write checks, yes. I don’t churn my own butter, and I’m a terrible cook. I can knit a decent looking hat or blanket, but don’t look for perfect rows. I have yet to really learn how to use a chainsaw and, although I was raised by a hunter, I don’t hunt. Geraniums are the only plants I successfully grow. I can sew a button, chop wood, and start a fire. I’m clumsy with knots, but I can set up a tent.
Living in Montana gives the distinct advantage of ensuring that these skills, once wholeheartedly needed for survival, endure. Tourists and enthusiastic visitors cite our natural beauty and open spaces, in breathless tones of awe. Yeah, we do have that. But we also must live and work in this spectacular environment, and that often means stalking elk to fill freezer and running saws to keep our homes warm. Yes, I’m being self-congratulatory about driving a stick shift, and when my minivan returns fixed, I won’t be pining for a manual anytime soon. But knowing how to do some more basic tasks unlike say experimenting with nuclear fusion or taking a company public feels good. Feels like I once learned something when I was still in middle school and kept working on it until I (almost) stopped stalling out.