I keep fumbling around, feeling for the car keys in my pockets and then I remember: they are in my son’s pocket. For a moment I have forgotten I have given them to him and that he is going to drive me home.

Sam, at 16, is now officially my chauffeur since getting his driver’s permit last week. And I am joining the ranks of white-knuckled parents everywhere with the surefire feeling that there should be a brake installed on the car’s passenger side. Not that Sam is doing badly—I’m sure he will become a better driver than I am—it’s just his quick turns that make me brace my whole body.

In six months, he will be eligible to take the New York State road test for a junior license. Provided he logs at least 50 hours of supervised driving including 15 hours after sunset.

In response to rising traffic fatalities, New York City and Chicago became the first American localities to introduce testing prior to operating a motor vehicle in 1899, according to Wikipedia. In 1903, Massachusetts and Missouri became the first states to require a license for driving.

Today, most states issue driver’s permits at age 15 or 16 years. But there are a few, mostly in the rural west, that allow kids to begin driving at 14 years. Some rural kids have an advantage since they often have experience with driving farm machinery.

Since taking his written test for a learner’s permit at the DMV in Deposit, NY, a week ago, Sam has driven me everywhere. In the local parlance, from the starting point of our house in French Woods, NY, that means “out” to Hancock, “down” to Callicoon, and “over “to Starlight, PA. We have yet to go “up” to Deposit or Binghamton, which will require highway driving.

When I was learning to drive, I would practice with my Uncle Bennie, who was a Catholic priest, by going “over” to Roscoe to the ice cream stand. My father lined up the manure spreader and Ford tractor on the road so that I could practice parallel parking between them. And I remember one of my first solo drives was “up” to Hinman Mills in Deposit to buy bailing twine.

On Sunday, Sam took the five-hour course the state requires for students who do not take driver’s education in school and older people getting their first license. Now he just needs to practice.

I often see the student drivers from the Job Corps in Callicoon creeping past my house on Route 97 in the white cars of the Daytona Driving School. I’ve driven behind them and passed them, and they have pulled off the road to let me pass them, as well. Sometimes the nervousness of these new drivers is so palpable it makes me want to cry, remembering that vulnerability. I marvel at these kids, like Sam, with all that life to live ahead of them. And I wonder how did I get so old?