Sunday Driver

When I turned 16, the age of my youngest child, my parents abandoned all attempts to teach me how to drive on the real streets of Long Island.

Once, my mom forced me to pull over, yelling, “Stop the car!” She jumped out, the second the wheels stopped. She didn’t even take over; We had only just turned the corner, but that was enough, she said. Mom insisted we walk home, leaving the car for my father to fetch later.

Even with a permit, Mom and Dad told me all they could handle was for me to practice in huge, empty parking lots, like off-season at Riis Park and the still relatively new Roosevelt Field Mall.

Let me clarify something to those who know me well: This would be several years before I earned my nickname: “Crash Ennis.”

One Easter weekend in 1980, we visited the cousins in New Jersey and slept over. My Uncle Joe woke me up early Sunday morning, while everyone else was still asleep, and we snuck out to the driveway. He then handed me the keys to their second car, a baby blue 1970 Dodge Dart sedan. With his help, I carefully navigated the streets of Little Silver, all the way down to Long Branch, touring the Jersey Shore at dawn.

Uncle Joe’s patience, his gentle guidance and his confidence that I could manage such a feat without a single incident, made a big difference for me. So, the next week, when my parents…