I.P.D.E.

Four Letters, One Lifetime of Lessons

Anyone in my age group who learned how to drive through Driver’s Education in high school may have fond—or perhaps terrifying—memories of a class that taught you how to navigate the open road alongside three or four other students.

Picture it. A four-door sedan equipped with two steering wheels, two sets of brakes, and approximately ten bumper stickers alerting innocent motorists that STUDENT DRIVERS were behind the wheel. Basically, a rolling public service announcement warning everyone to proceed at their own risk.

Our high school had three full-time driving instructors. All were teachers who also held other positions at the school, whether in the classroom or coaching sports. Each had a teaching style that was vastly different from the next.

My husband, who graduated the year before me, often tells the story of his instructor. A burly guy who was an Industrial Arts teacher, Hockey Coach, and Driver’s Ed instructor.

His approach was practical. Sure, classroom lessons were required, but the real education happened behind the wheel. On the road. In everyday situations.

As a result, my husband’s driving lessons consisted of picking up the instructor’s dry cleaning, dropping him at the supermarket for a few items, and doing “donuts” in the back parking lot.

On rainy days, they even drove into muddy areas to practice getting themselves unstuck. Apparently, this was an essential survival skill should they ever find themselves down by the beach, stranded on the muddy grass bordering the parkway.
Practical lessons indeed.

Then there was Kiki’s instructor.

A former priest turned English teacher and golf coach.

I felt an added layer of protection knowing my instructor had once been a man of the cloth. Frankly, I needed all the divine intervention I could get considering the girls assigned to my driving group.

Somehow, I survived my weekly excursions with these hippie-type chicks. Each was very nice to me, but they were so damn laid-back and perpetually smelled like incense and hemp.

I may STILL be recovering from the afternoon one of them missed an exit on the expressway.

No problem, right?

WRONG.

Rather than continue to the next exit, she proceeded to pull onto the shoulder, put the car in REVERSE, and BACK UP toward the exit ramp.

ON THE EXPRESSWAY.

I swear our instructor started praying.

I also distinctly remember hearing little clicking sounds, which led me to believe he might have been silently working his way through an entire set of rosary beads.
Forget Driver’s Ed. We needed an exorcism.

But here’s where this story takes a turn. A safe, properly signaled turn, of course.
The classroom lessons proved to be some of the most beneficial lessons I would ever learn—not just about driving, but about life.

Four little letters.

I.P.D.E.

Identify.

Predict.

Decide.

Execute.

The concept was simple yet brilliant.

Identify that a woman is crossing the road.

Predict that she may not clear your path by the time your vehicle approaches.

Decide whether to slow down or proceed with added caution.

Execute your decision.

Four steps. One process.

And just like that, a teenage Kiki had been handed a blueprint for navigating far more than the roads of Long Island.

As the classroom lessons transitioned to our actual driving sessions, I began applying IPDE to everything. Eventually, it became part of my everyday reasoning.

I could almost hear Mr. Raeger’s voice guiding me through each step.

Identify. Predict. Decide. Execute.

It became second nature.

I’m happy to report that I passed my road test on the first try. My examiner instructed me to parallel park alongside a gigantic snowbank.

No problem.

I identified the snowbank.

I predicted that it was highly unlikely to melt in the next five minutes.

I decided to treat that frozen mountain like another vehicle.

And I executed a flawless parallel parking maneuver.

BOOM.

Licensed to drive.

It wasn’t until after college that I discovered IPDE was actually a commonly used Driver’s Education teaching model.

I didn’t care.

To me, it belonged to Mr. Raeger.

More importantly, it worked.

Over the decades, those four little letters followed me through career decisions, relationships, parenting, challenges, and just about every curveball life tossed in my direction. Identify the situation. Predict the possibilities. Decide how to proceed. Execute.

Simple? Perhaps.

Powerful? Absolutely.

Flash forward to an October evening last year.

My sister Kathy was being inducted into our Bethpage Hall of Fame. It was a wonderful evening celebrating people who had made meaningful contributions to our community.

As I looked through the program, one particular name caught my eye.

Mr. John Raeger.

My Driver’s Ed instructor.

All these decades later.

After the speeches, I made my way over to him and reintroduced myself. He graciously introduced me to his wife and daughter.

And then I told him something I had been carrying around for decades.

I thanked him.

Not simply for teaching me how to drive or helping me earn my license, but for teaching me how to navigate life.

I explained how IPDE had become a crown jewel in the way I reasoned, made decisions, and moved through each chapter of my life.

Mr. Raeger lit up.

He was genuinely delighted to learn that something he had taught a teenage girl all those years ago had stayed with her for a lifetime. And I was equally delighted to finally tell him.

We move through life encountering teachers, coaches, mentors, and countless others who leave little pieces of themselves with us. Sometimes they never know the impact they’ve made. A lesson delivered on an ordinary Tuesday afternoon can become a philosophy someone carries for fifty years.

And sometimes, if we’re lucky, life gives us the opportunity to circle back and say thank you.

As for Kiki?

I identified a familiar name in a Hall of Fame program.

I predicted that introducing myself might bring back a few memories.

I decided that this wonderful man needed to know the difference he’d made in my life.

And I executed one long-overdue thank-you.

Mr. Raeger, you taught me how to drive. But more importantly, you taught me how to steer.

And all these years later, I’m still following your directions.

Although, for the record, I have NEVER backed up on the Long Island Expressway.

Some lessons you only need to learn once.