Алан Джексон отыграл свой последний концерт в Ньюнне, собрав на сцене звезд и местных жителей

One of Newnan’s local sons, Alan Jackson, recently performed his final public concert. Nashville royalty showed up. So did his Newnan sisters. I believe Alan claims 31 No. 1 country song hits. “Livin’ on Love” humbles me. “Drive” strikes all the right notes, especially the unforgettable chorus: “I was Mario Andretti when Daddy let me drive.” Locals can relate to the references to Lake Wedowee and Thigpen Road. I learned to drive in a Decatur neighborhood that had two dead ends, one right off our driveway. Dad sat next to me on the bench seat of a brown Dodge equipped with an automatic transmission controlled by a column shifter. For two weeks, I waited anxiously for Dad to get home from work so we could run back and forth on the streets and navigate the turnarounds. One late Saturday morning, after we had practiced for several weeks, Dad said I was going to take us to dinner. He backed the sedan out of the carport, opened the rear door for Mom, who enthusiastically accepted the invitation, and told me to drive onto Lavista Road all the way to Northlake Mall. This would be my first encounter with two-way traffic. I turned left from Pangborn onto Lavista, heading toward Tucker. I was absolutely fixated on maintaining my lane. Mom cheered me on from the back seat. A quarter-mile in, I stopped for the traffic light at Frazier. Handled it perfectly. Once past the fruit stand on the right, a warm cloak of euphoria enveloped me. Heck, I was driving. I was free. I was Mario. I slapped the thin plastic wheel with both hands in celebration. Big mistake. Dad screamed at me. “What are you doing? Keep your hands at 10 and 2 o’clock at all times. You are going to kill us.” Chastened, my happiness fled like a scalded dog. The moment of joy became a solemn, disciplined rite of passage. I spoke not a word. I focused and steered silently to the mall and back. Mom was quiet. But I learned something. I have one daughter. When she wanted to learn to drive, Oak Hill Cemetery was our proving ground. The vehicle of choice was my 1980 terra cotta-colored Saab coupe equipped with a five-speed manual gearbox. I told her if she mastered it, she would never have to worry about some crumb bum stealing it because no one could drive a manual. If she learned, she was not only safe but a truly accomplished driver. She was a quick study. Throughout the one-month program, she never ran over a grave, maimed a maintenance worker or struck a ghost. Unfortunately, she never got out of third gear. We just ran out of room between the graves of Lamar Potts and Ellis Arnall. When the day arrived for an authentic road test, I had mapped out a route of nothing but right turns. No lefts. Brilliant for a first drive. If we ever needed to go left, I opted for three rights. Ergo, we departed our driveway and turned right onto Temple. A half-block west, we made another right onto Dent. Once on Dent, we inched up, never getting out of first gear, to Clark, where we turned right again. This required two shifts, so we were in second at the crash-corner interchange where we turned, you guessed it, right onto Jackson. It was all going according to plan until we hit, bad choice of words, the back entrance to the Wishbone Chicken parking lot. The light at RPM, which was Bennefield Chevron at the time, was red, and traffic had backed up down the hill. My daughter dutifully depressed the clutch, applied the brake and shifted into neutral. Perfect. Then the cars ahead of her began to move. She pushed the clutch to the floor, shifted into first, gave the old Saab some gas and released the clutch too fast. We jerked and lurched forward. The in-line six coughed and died. The drivers behind us slammed on their brakes, and then a couple of them sat on their horns. My daughter freaked. “What do I do, Daddy?” “Girl, you got this,” I said. I pulled up the emergency brake lever between the front seats. I calmly told her to push in the clutch, shift back into neutral and restart the motor. This she did. I then coached her to slowly release the clutch, reassuring her that I would not let us drift backward because I was working the brake. The two of us relaunched the coupe and moved up the hill. Our first left was Salbide. “Way to go, sweetie,” I said. “I knew you could do it. You’re the best.” Twelve years later, this same girl was piloting jets in combat missions over Afghanistan, Pakistan and Iraq. My dad did teach me something.