How Do You Get To The Bowling Alley? Practice, Practice, Practice!

Okay. I know that's how you get to Cargegie Hall. But it's also how The Pony is gonna get to the bowling alley.

There he sat at 11:30, all dressed in his SLACKS and his bowling league shirt (not the Al Bundy button-up kind, but the thin knit form-fitting modern youth kind), even wearing socks, happily texting his paramour, when that ol' phonograph record of adolescent contentment came to a screeching halt.

"Grab your driver's permit, Pony, so you can drive us to the bowling alley."

Woe was The Pony. His face paled even more that its normal hue of one who spends every spare moment in the basement on a cheap couch playing computer games. I swear I could hear his heart accelerate. His hair stood on end. Well, maybe. It's possible that he had couch hair, what with his tresses being too long right now, and him sporting curls like the #1 son as a toddler, who has recently announced, "I was rockin' the fro when I was a kid. I can't believe you let my hair get like that."

Did Farmer H relent at The Pony's panic? Nope.

"Come on. The roads are melted. You'll be fine."

Nor did he let The Pony drive his very own Ford Ranger, but instead made him take the $1000 Caravan, with its duct-taped passenger window. I was headed to town to pick up prescriptions, so I told The Pony I would follow him. You know. So there wouldn't be a tailgater on his bumper on the lettered highway, where the speed limit is FAST. Farmer H did acquiesce a bit, and told The Pony he could drive out the county road, and they would switch before the lettered highway.

Farmer H backed the $1000 Caravan out of the garage. The Pony got in. I waited for him to get out of my way so I could back T-Hoe out. It took a while. My seat heater was already kicking in with warmth. Finally, that Caravan started inching up the driveway. For about 20 feet. Then it stopped. The Pony got out.

"I forgot my permit. I opened up the cabinet to get my billfold, but I guess I forgot the permit."

Farmer H walked back to talk to me. "You can get around. You probably want to go on ahead."

"No. I told him I'd follow and watch him drive."

"Well, he won't go fast. He just now asked me, 'Which one's the gas and which one's the brake again?' I don't know if he's that dumb, or if he's stalling."

"He wants to make sure."

"Whatever."

The Pony returned and got back in. More waiting. Off it went, cutting through the edge of the yard at the end of the driveway. Farmer H was right. The Pony's speed varied, from about 25 mph to 12 mph. Dang. Who's boy IS he, anyway? His grandma's, perhaps. I will say that The Pony is not a sweaver. He consistently takes his half out of the middle. Still, he only ran one car off the road.

I'm glad Farmer H is the official driving instructor. My nerves can't take it. The #1 son was enough for me, and he had been driving a go-kart since he was four, and a stick-shift Toyota Corolla from the age of ten.

One of these days, I guess The Pony will get the hang of it.