Saddle Sore: Are you sure you need a driver’s license?

While waiting for my granddaughter’s lacrosse game to start over in Eagle, I was eavesdropping on some nearby parents who were talking about how difficult it is for kids — at 16 — to get a full driver’s license these days. Wow. No wonder some don’t feel the need to drive just yet.

The day I turned 16, my parents and I drove to the Pitkin County Courthouse, where Sheriff Lorain Herwick was the entire DMV for the county. He was also a friend of the family — he’d built the house we were living in on the ranch.

There are no secrets in a small town, and the sheriff asked, “Are you sure you need a driver’s license? I’ve seen you driving around town for a couple of years.” Which, of course, made my dad wince. Still, we continued on — me taking the written test, and Herwick saying, “No need for a driving test, I reckon.”

Ranch kids get an early start. At 5 or 6, back in our potato-farming days, my dad would put me behind the wheel of our 1949 Diamond T, telling me to drive in a straight line close to the row of filled potato sacks from bottom to top of the field. The dog would ride in the cab with me while the crew stacked full sacks on the truck. My dad stopped the truck at the end of the line. It was almost impossible to turn the steering wheel in that soft dirt — me standing on the seat just to see and get some leverage — but I only got chewed out once.

By age 10, my dad had me running our Farmall C tractor, pulling a makeshift drag around the hayfields. I thought I was pretty special. Later that summer, my grandfather taught me how to rake hay using the old Ought-Six tractor and a John Deere side-delivery rake. They were excellent teachers, and I loved every minute — though, I’ll admit, dragging around in circles for three or four hours could get a little dull. Getting to and from work meant driving up and down three big mesas on roads barely wide enough for the tractor.

There’s a danger to early responsibility, besides the obvious safety concerns. My grandfather died in my 12th year, so by default, I became the rake man — an important cog in the haying operation. No more days off for summer camp, cow camp, or weekends in town. Six days a week, Sunday off. No discussion, no argument.

Ranching had other areas that required driving, as well. We ran about 300 head of mother cows on a couple of range permits, which meant hauling our horses to different areas to tend the cattle. Naturally, yours truly was the first one to raise his hand to drive. That same old 1949 Diamond T — I loved that truck.

The ranch taught me plenty about driving, but there was another side of life I found equally exciting. In seventh grade, a beautiful girl from Texas moved to town, and I was immediately smitten. I asked her to go to the movies with me. My town grandmother had a new Chevrolet, and I asked if she’d drive us. Seems embarrassing now, but after Grandma dropped us off and I walked the girl home, Grandma came up with the best idea: “You know how to drive — just take my car next time.”

Her sister also had a new Chevy, and from then on, I was rarely without a car at my disposal. And when I stayed in town during the school year, my friend Jack Rowland would sometimes pick me up at Grandma’s — driving Dougald Sullivan’s Cadillac sedan. We were the same age and never without wheels. I bought my first car when I turned 16.

This could turn into a whole novel about a boy and his driving adventures, but in the end, it simply put a love of the road into my life that’s never faded. I’ve driven semi-trucks, huge loaders in a gravel pit, sports cars, school buses, ambulances, VW Bugs, and now, as the clock turns a little faster, I’m down to a horse-trailer-pulling Dodge and a nifty little Jeep that can park almost anywhere. Oh yeah, and hay equipment. Still doing that.

And my grandson, 11, can already drive the Jeep. His parents got him started early, and the family tradition continues.

Tony Vagneur writes here on Saturdays and welcomes your comments at ajv@sopris.net.

Tony Vagneur writes here on Saturdays and welcomes your comments at ajv@sopris.net.