Three on the tree
If you know what “three on the tree” means, you’re no kid. And when you were one, there’s a good chance you lived on a farm.
There was never any question about whether I’d learn to drive. I’d lived my 16 years on the farm, 15 miles from town where I was bussed to school, and even further away from many of my closest friends. I was as desperate for the independence of a licence as my parents were to be rid of the obligation to transport me to extracurricular activities.
Ours was a long laneway and as a 15 year old, with supervision, I’d driven the car a handful of times to the mailbox at the road. Otherwise my driving had been strictly limited to tractors. I was itching to get licensed as quickly as possible. The Ministry testing office in Wingham was open on Tuesday mornings. Only Tuesday mornings. (You urban folk have no idea the hardships.) I turned 16 on a Saturday and waited an excruciating three days before I could write the multiple choice quiz to get my ‘beginners,’ the piece of paper that would allow me to drive with a licensed driver.
The following weekend we went to my sister’s in Sault Ste. Marie for Thanksgiving. I insisted on driving and dad was game to take on the coaching role. We took the family car: a brand new bright red Ford Fiesta with four on the floor standard transmission, easy to learn because of its compact size. A couple of miles into the trip, I overtook my first vehicle. It was a combine, moving from one farm to another during the fall harvest. Passing it gave me a jolt of adrenaline that I can feel like it was yesterday. I felt so grown up! The route took us from gravel to two line paved roads, across the US border at Sarnia, and up Michigan’s I75, a four lane divided highway. I drove the entire way - no-one was going to bump me from the long-awaited driver’s seat. As I unfolded myself from the bucket seat eight hours later, the intensity of the experience left my back muscles in one large knot. But I was proud as hell. I could just tell this driving was going to be my thing.
A few weeks later, I had my first go at driving dad’s Ford pickup. The truck was only two years old - new by farm standards - and the exact opposite of “fully loaded.” This beast had a bench seat with three belts but was wide enough to seat seven in a pinch; a metal dashboard and interior door panels; a glove box that would hold a two litre bottle of pop (or other bevies of choice for teens of the day); and a three speed gear shift on the column - aka “three on the tree.” Like all farm trucks, it was not purchased as a pleasure vehicle. It was farm equipment with ancillary personal use at best.
Dad had come to pick me up from my piano lesson He brought the truck, seeing a chance for me to learn to drive the second vehicle. Once I was fully licensed, he’d rely on me to pick up farm supplies and otherwise contribute as the third driver in the house so, while my self-image didn’t include pickup truck-driving, learning to drive it was non-negotiable.
I hauled myself into the driver’s seat, confident I would have no trouble, having aced shifting in the car. Three on the tree, however, is not the same as four on the floor and not all clutches are built the same. And it was enormous compared to the Fiesta! But worse, I had an audience. My teacher’s son (aged 17 and therefore brimming over with a sense of superiority) and his father (a man who related best to young women through not-so-gentle ribbing) realized what was about to happen and stood on the porch to laugh. The yard was small and full of farm equipment. I would have to turn around. A more experienced driver would not have required the 18 point turn I needed but there I was - lurching forward, putting it into reverse, stalling, lurching backward, putting it into second by mistake, stalling, getting it into first, stalling, rinse and repeat. I was - and regrettably remain - impatient with any inadequacies in myself and was foul-tempered by about the second time I had to restart the engine. My father, the king of patience, sat calmly beside me, gently reminding me when to give gas, when to depress the clutch, and more importantly, to ignore the audience. I finally got out to the road and drove the 5 miles home down the gravel concession, nursing my bruised ego and listening to Rossini’s William Tell Overture on the 8-track, one of three tapes that dad had on rotation in the truck.
I got my full licence a couple of months later - just over 40 years ago - and then there was no stopping me. For the next three years, that truck became “mine.” I flew around the backroads on my Saturday morning Avon route, winding down the manual windows to blow the cigarette smoke out.* I drove to school even on days when weather prevented the buses from running to meet some important yearbook commitment or for my part-time after-school job. I travelled solo to Toronto to visit another sister for weekends, roaring down the 401 at top speed and installing it in the Green P at Yonge and Wellesley. I learned that backing up made the odometer reverse, allowing me to minimize the mileage I paid my parents. Oh yes, that truck and I were fast friends.
I didn’t buy my own car until I was in my 30s but I made sure it was a standard transmission. My early love of driving was very much still alive. Within two weeks of buying it, I travelled in my 2000 Toyota Echo to Halifax and then two years later made the longer trip alone to Victoria where I lived for three years. I drive hybrids now which don’t provide the control and excitement of a gearshift. As cars become more and more automated, with backup cameras, bells that tell you when you’re straddling a lane, cruise control, and in some cases, fully self-driving, I’m grateful I learned to drive stick. And yes, even three on the tree.
* I had my last cigarette outside the Sydney Opera House on March 31, 2001 after having smoked on and off since I was 15. I am so grateful to have kicked the habit. It’s expensive, stupid, disgusting, and terribly addictive with deadly consequences. And I once nearly burned my bum when I was about 17 and my tossed cigarette butt blew back into the truck while I was driving on the 401. Yet another story my mother is learning for the first time.
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