You can read it everywhere — one of the toughest things about getting older is the need to stop driving.

I had dreaded the possibility for myself. Driving one’s own car is the epitome of independence — of freedom.

I have read heart-wrenching stories of sons and daughters who are forced to take their parents’ car keys, putting an abrupt stop to one of Mom and Dad’s primary joys. I braced myself for the day that might happen to me.

Happily, things didn’t turn out that way.

I came late to driving. As a young woman, I had no need to drive, with a brother who loved to borrow the family car and with boyfriends who took me wherever I wanted to go. But in my late 20s, I got a job at the Marin Independent Journal, and it became obvious that I needed to drive.

I bought a Model A Ford and practiced driving it on the service road behind the Belvedere house where I lived.

When I passed the driving test. I commuted regularly from Belvedere to San Rafael.

As news editor of the IJ, I had a close colleague who did not drive: I picked him up in Corte Madera every morning and returned him home every night. I adored him, but he was a bit of a cheapskate: He only contributed for gas used when he was in the car, an amount he calculated carefully.

Meanwhile, I was loving the freedom of driving. My Model A inspired other young drivers to challenge me to road races, which I quickly accepted. It’s a wonder I survived 101.

Eventually I bought other ritzier cars; I particularly loved my white Ford convertible.

But driving became part of my huge enjoyment of life. On weekends, I drove to Pacific Grove to visit my best friend; on vacations, I would drive wherever my friends and I chose to go.

The freedom, the freedom. If I wanted a chocolate milkshake, I had but to jump in the car. If I needed a new fountain pen or a refill, I could just drive to the store and buy one.

I was a good driver, I believe. In all my years of driving, I got one ticket for speeding — 35 in a 25-mile zone in Sleepy Hollow — and one for running a red light right after my husband, Ross, had died.

As my five sons grew up, it was I who taught them to drive, usually when the parking lots were empty at Redwood High School. When one of my boys flunked the driving test twice in a row, I sympathized with his tears.

Eventually, we became a formidable automotive force. At one point, we had five cars parked in front of the house. A couple of them, of course, were real heaps, prompting a neighbor to put a sign on one saying, “This car does not belong to me.”

When I married again five years ago, my new husband took to driving me wherever I needed to go.

Meanwhile, my license was due to expire.

Three years ago, I passed the driving test, but because I have macular degeneration in one eye, I was required to renew my license every two years.

Last year, as renewal time neared, I let my license lapse. I had two main reasons for doing so: with imperfect eyesight, I was deeply fearful that I might cause an accident and hurt another driver or pedestrian. Though I still see pretty well, the fear was a real one.

My other reason: Rowland is endlessly patient and is still willing to drive me. I know I impose on his goodwill when I want to go to the gym or the store, but he always responds with a smile.

My advice to those who dread reaching an age where they might have to give up driving: Marry a partner who loves to drive and continues to do it well.

If I need to, I may take the driver’s test again.

But I probably won’t.

My driving days — which I truly loved — seem to be over. But with Rowland’s help, I am surviving just fine.

Lucky me.