When I was 16, with my learner’s permit in my pocket, my father took me out for a spin on a frosty Cleveland day.

Proudly perched behind the wheel of our 1976 silver Ford Granada, I delivered us all the way to the Methodist Church parking lot behind our house, just as my father instructed. I wanted to go further. But my dad put his foot down…on the gas pedal, in fact, flooring it, and sending the car into a tailspin. As we whipped past telephone poles and parked cars, I panicked.

Essayist Julianne Hill tells how her father’s driving lessons still guide her life choices.

Client: WBEZ

Date: June 15, 2007