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These cool, crisp days take me back to 1964. I was about 11 years old, and my parents had just purchased a 100- acre farm.

Dad wasn't about to be one of those guys who is "all hat and no cattle," - so he bought some mean cows and a new vehicle to survey the new land that was his.

He picked out a Ford Ranchero - a cool-looking model where the front end looked like a sedan automobile with a sculpted truck bed for hauling stuff.

The first thing we had to haul was hay in order to feed the livestock. Somebody must have suggested to dad that he could feed the cows and fertilize the pasture all at the same time if he drove in a straight line across the pasture and tossed little sections of square bale hay out the back.

The idea was that the cows would eat wherever the hay was dropped, and poop not far from the hay. Dad was new to this cattle magnate business, and he certainly didn't have a ranch hand to feed munchies to these moo-chers.

Feeding cows seemed like a perfect opportunity for dad to teach his 11-year-old daughter to drive a stick shift.

During phase one, dad got in the driver's seat, started the car in first gear and slowed to a snail's pace.

Then he jumped out of the car, hopped into the rear to throw hay, while I slid over and assumed command of the steering wheel.

It didn't take long for me advance to phase two and to demand to use the clutch and do all the driving.

I'm not bragging, but by the second year I had gotten pretty good at using all four gears on a standard transmission.

With this new found confidence came a wee bit of boredom. I quickly learned, however, there were no U-turns on this obligation. Dad needed a driver, and I was his gal. So one day, as I prepared to ease into first gear across the pasture, I decided to inject a new challenge into the mundane chore. I crossed my legs. I pushed the clutch to the floorboard with my right foot and dropped the gear shift into first gear. Simultaneously, I pressed on the gas with my left foot as my right foot let off the clutch pedal.

What happened next wasn't pretty. Let's just say if I had been on a drag strip, the tires would have burned rubber. The truck lurched forward as the tire treads threw clumps of grass out the back. I uncrossed my legs, hit the brake and looked in the rearview mirror. Dad had been thrown to the ground with my Indy 500-style start.

"Dad, dad," I shouted as I ran to his side to help him up. "Are you hurt? I'm so sorry, I accidentally popped the clutch."

Fortunately, the only thing hurt was my pride, coupled with the guilt of a little white lie. What I remember most was dad's reaction. "It's okay. It was an accident."

That little lie festered for nine years and nagged at my conscience like a fish wife. One evening in Austin, while I was a UT student and dad was in the Texas Legislature, dad and I were having dinner with some of his friends. I decided to tell him the whole truth about how I crossed my legs and tried to drive a standard transmission.

I thought that it was a safe bet that he wouldn't get his belt after a 20-yearold college freshman.

Once again, dad surprised me as I told the unabridged version of the day he fell out of the Ranchero. We laughed so hard, it was a conscience-cleansing epiphany.

I don't see Rancheros on the road very often. Don't see too many square bales of hay either. But when I do, I am transported back 43 years to a time when I was pretty sure that I "clutched" the world by the tail and I knew everything.

As a parent, I can appreciate the restraint that dad used in dealing with me. There were no trips to the woodshed with his belt. I can also cherish the relationship we shared as adults.

Parents and teachers know the challenge of keeping children motivated, engaged and stimulated in their quest for knowledge. Bored kids improvise and ad lib - and sometimes make poor choices like I did when I clutched the world.