I am feeling kind of melancholy today. The rain is falling softly outside and the clouds fill the sky. I'm not depressed, it's just that the world seems to be in some sort of a hushed slow motion and even I seem to be moving and even thinking more slowly than usual. I've often wondered why it is that I seem to feel sleepy when it rains. Perhaps we were just programmed that way because God knew we wouldn't have enough sense to get in out of the rain unless we were told to do so.

Sometimes when it is just such a day I spend my in-between time day dreaming and looking out the window. I spent most of my public education career looking out one classroom window after another, but it never produced good results, so don't try it. I've even occasionally sat in my truck and watched the rain roll down the glass like little rivers, enjoying the sound of the pitter-pattering drops falling on the metal. I miss living in the old houses I've inhabited in my life, all with tin roofs, where the sound of raindrops always would drum up a restful melody. Asphalt shingles just don't do it for me.

I was sitting in the truck for a few minutes gathering my thoughts earlier this morning when an old Jeep drove by. Already in a quiet kind of mood, seeing it reminded me of my early driving experiences.

I can remember one time when my Jeep broke down in the rain and I had to walk about two miles to get some help. At the time, I couldn't figure out what was wrong with it. It was just going along fine and then, it wasn't. I later figured it out after a lengthy process of trial and error in the rain. Over time I also figured out how the problem worked: when it rained a good amount and I drove in through enough standing water, it would splash up on the distributor and the engine would lose its spark and die out. I never did figure out a way to prevent it from happening altogether, since I didn't have enough sense to avoid splashing wildly through every puddle or creek in sight, but I think I could do it now if given the chance. I've learned quite a bit since then.

Anyway, when it died out from getting water in the distributor, I had to find something to dry it out with, wipe out the water and then make sure all the plug wires were dry and connected well before getting on my way. Knowledge like that is valuable, but sadly doesn't come automatically.

The Jeep belonged to my Dad, who bought it new. He didn't have that problem, because he usually didn't need to go anywhere in the rain and if he did, he wasn't foolishly hot-dogging through mud puddles at high speeds. As for the Jeep, it was dark green and it had a ragged cloth top with most of the plastic windows too yellow to see through. It was cold and drafty in the winter and the heater barely seemed to be working. But it was dependable and tough—unless it rained, of course.

My father taught me to drive in that Jeep. It had a simple three- speed transmission, but it seemed pretty complicated to a 15-year-old boy. I can remember my father patiently teaching me how to drive as I occasionally had a panic attack on a hill with cars lined up behind me. In case you don't know, a straight transmission requires the use of a clutch. When the clutch is pushed in, the vehicle can roll backwards freely; you have to push the brake in to get the vehicle to stop. But the clutch has to be moving outward for the vehicle to take off. So, the trick is to try and teach a beginner to either hold the vehicle steady with the clutch partially released, which seems impossible to start with, or to hold it still with the brakes and then try to take off by releasing the brake, depressing the clutch and shifting into gear and then letting out the clutch and pushing the gas all at once. As I said, this stuff is all old hat to me now, but then it was something akin to orchestrating a symphony. Once as I sat on a hill, I killed the engine about four times in a row as the vehicles behind me started to beep and my blood pressure shot through the cloth roof. My father never let on, he was sure and steady, calmly telling me to try again. On the fifth try, the Jeep lurched into motion and I triumphantly left the ‘honkers' behind in a puff of black smoke.

At the time, as I was rolling back down that hill with people honking horns and yelling for me to move it, I wanted him to get out and drive for me. He didn't and I now realize that he was teaching me to rely on myself. He spent most of his efforts on teaching me to be self-sufficient. By the time I left home, I had most of the basic skills he wanted me to have and I had developed a fiercely independent streak that I still sometimes struggle with. Don't get me wrong, it isn't all bad, but sometimes it's hard to listen to others when you're always trusting in yourself.

The Jeep converted well from farm vehicle to a young man's purposes. I would take it out to ride around town with cow manure caked one the wheels and the cloth top pushed down on Saturday night. Of course I also found a place to stash the doors, which are easily removable on a soft top. The weather was irrelevant for the most part. After I drove it for a while, I ended up deciding to buy a Mustang with shiny paint and a faster engine. I still drove it on and off for several more years, especially when it snowed. The Mustang would barely take off if the road were wet, let alone icy. I wasn't always practical.

The Jeep had about 165,000 miles on it when I finally sold it. If I knew then what I know now, I never would have let it go. I suppose a rusty old Jeep with most of its life beat out of it didn't have much value without the added jewel of nostalgia. I read a story about a fellow who tracked down the car his father drove, an old Impala, and bought it for more than $20,000. I can understand where he was coming from. In a way, I'm glad I don't know where it is. There isn't enough room in my yard for much more nostalgia.

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