My father bought a car when they were still a novelty, before I was born. The first thing he did was take his parents to Coney Island. He broke down once crossing the Brooklyn Bridge, much to the ire of all the horse and buggy drivers. They threatened to throw the horseless carriage off the bridge.
Women didn't drive when I was growing up. My mother didn't know how to drive. John's mother didn't drive. The only woman I knew who drove was Mrs. Stanley, Judy's mom. We had a Jordan. The Stanley's had a Pierced Arrow.
Aunt 'Beana'—I don't know what her real name was—lived in Bridgeport CT. She ran an oyster business. She had a chauffeur. Judy's mom would take us to kindergarden at Fielding School. Then we got a chauffeur, Fred, who taught me to drive. He would take us to South Mountain School. It was up the 'mountain', really just a hill. Chauffeurs would drop off the kids.
I used to borrow John's father's car to go shopping every Thursday or Friday. There was a traffic light on South Orange Ave. about a third of the way up the 'mountain'. People would always stall at the light. You would have to use the hand break on the hill to get started. Automatic transmission was a wonderful invention.
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