ABSTRACT
My father taught me how to drive. We spent hours driving the family car around our small town until he determined I was ready to take the drivers’ license test. I passed, but just barely. One of the lessons he taught me was how to park the car in the garage. He showed me how to line up the car in the driveway before entering the garage and how to tell when I was far enough inside to ensure the garage door would close. “Just a tad more,” he said as I crept into the garage during my first lesson. “Okay, that’s far enough. Stop!” In my nervousness, I tapped the accelerator rather than the brake to stop, crashing into the wall of the garage and leaving a gaping hole. In my attempt to deflect my father’s anger, I jokingly asked, “Exactly how far is a tad?” My father was not, and is still not, amused.
