My son graduated today.

His older brother graduated about a year earlier, so this might seem anticlimactic.

Neither were the kind of graduation that involves robes, tassels or folding chairs.

But it mattered to Matt, the younger of my two sons. Just like it had mattered to Ben a year earlier. And it mattered to me, because I'm their Dad. And little moments are what make up the fabric of our lives.

Matt is 16. He's had his driver's license since shortly after his birthday in April.

He'd learned to drive on our Toyota Sienna — a mid-size van that's far too easy to drive. He passed his driver's test with few warnings.

But he got that license when I wasn't around. (He's always been good at working the angles.) He got his Mom to take him. The deal I'd set with him, and his brother, was that they wouldn't see the Department of Motor Vehicles until they'd proven to me they could drive a five-speed clutch (on my Corolla.)

That meant me in the driver's seat guiding them toward easing off the clutch and onto the gas at stop signs, stop lights, and in bumper-to-bumper traffic. There was a bit of bucking. Motorists either smiled or cursed — usually depending on if they were behind us or not.

So now it was August. School would begin soon for Matt, and I knew he needed to be competent on our second vehicle. We'd need his taxi services — for him and for his 13 year-old sister.

The day before, I'd told him he couldn't go to a pool party unless he drove the Corolla. Mom had the van and I made it his only option. But Mom showed up and bailed him out.

So today, Mom had the van again and Matt wanted to do another friends outing. I told him the Corolla was his only option.

Now Matt had been practicing with me several times with the clutch and basically had it down. What was missing was confidence. The barrier was in his head. And that barrier could only be removed by him, at the wheel, in traffic.

He asked if he should practice first — on the steep hill that runs through our subdivision. I told him to do that hill three times.

He came back a while later and said he was headed out to the mall.

The mall he had in mind was about 10 miles away and at the base of a fairly steep hill. I knew he'd do okay on the way there. But uphill would be a challenge.

Three hours later, he called me.

"I made it," he said. "I'm parking the car." The boy was calling me from the driveway. The Eagle had landed.

I went out and opened the garage door for him and told him to leave it in the driveway. I didn't want him to have to figure out backing into the single-bay opening. Our older son had sheared off the passenger-side mirror that way.

As he got out of the car, he said, "I can do it. Now I can drive this car whenever I want to." I didn't correct him. The title and insurance bill still had my name on them.

But he'd done it. He'd graduated.

I can't remember if I told him I was proud of him. But I did tell him congratulations — that I knew he could do it.

Like most graduations, it didn't last long. He promptly forgot it and went in the house.

The world around us moved on, most never knew it happened. But it did. And the second of my two sons had taken another step toward life preparation that can come in no other place than hard pavement.