My Grandpa Gib, Gilbert J. Wagner (born 1/26/17, died 11/4/91)

“Pull over. Slowly…Just pull over!”

These were the words from Willis Jensen, my exasperated driver’s ed teacher.

I had just pressed the gas while making my first turn on my first day of driver’s ed. Driving did not come intuitively to me. I thought extra momentum was needed to round the corner.

To correct my acceleration error, I slammed on the brakes. Mr. Jensen had now lost all patience - five minutes into my lesson.

“Put it in Park! That’s P – P as in PARK!”

It was assumed that I would know gear initials on my first day of driving. But I did not. My initial question while buckling in was, “What does the D stand for?” The technicalities of driving were foreign to me.

My driver’s ed partner, Amy, rolled in laughter as I tossed her over the back seat with my gunning of the gas. When it was her turn at the wheel, Amy made all her turns and stops with perfection. Growing up on a farm, full of drivable equipment, maneuvering a car came easily to her.

While my friends were well-versed in the difference between the D and P gears, I somehow missed those early lessons. My first time behind a steering wheel was that afternoon with Mr. Jensen.

It was the summer of 1983. In my small rural town, driver’s education classes were a requirement the summer before your 16th birthday. Passing the class was also a requirement for getting your driver’s license.

I passed driver's ed, but with an addendum. My certificate of completion was stamped “MUST DRIVE WITH EXAMINER.”

Now that I knew the intricacies of the gears and when gas acceleration is needed, I thought this extra exam would be easy. But for me, it was not. I flunked the driving exam and was not issued a license.

My examiner was clear on my shortcomings:

“Improper left turn from right lane.”

“Lane changing without signal or looking in mirror or behind.”

My grandpa had driven me to the DMV that day. The idea was that I would be the one to drive us both home. Instead, I embarrassingly shared my failure with Grandpa Gib, as he stayed behind the wheel for both ends of the trip.

A straight-A student, I was embarrassed by this failure. Why was I so inept at mastering a car when books came so easily for me? My grandpa, on the other hand, was a skilled driver. He loved driving my brothers and me around town in his varied inventory of cars and trucks. Grandpa frequented our local used car salesman, exchanging vehicles when something new caught his eye.

Always favoring older models, Grandpa owned a rust-colored 1974 Ford Ranchero before trading it in later for a larger International pickup truck. He proudly drove around town with his arm resting out the open window, enjoying road trips through cornfield-lined county roads.

Grandpa Gib had a quiet nature with a playful sense of humor. When he wasn’t laughing at his grandchildren’s childish antics, he was carting us around to activities when our parents weren’t available.

His love language revolved solidly around humor and transportation.

When I hung my head in defeat after my failed driving test, he rechanneled his car knowledge to Instructor mode. A plan was unleashed for me - private driving lessons.

We started with short drives around our small town. Once I showed confidence and passed the easier skills, Grandpa graduated me to the county highways he loved. Learning how to check my mirrors and use turn signals properly, he then announced that it was time for a road trip.

He thought a drive on busier highways would be a great next step in preparing me for my driving exam. He chose a sixty-mile trip that included a short visit to my aunt’s home with my grandma in tow.

By this time, Grandpa and I were comfortable with our seating arrangement in the front. Grandma buckled in the back as we took off for our driving adventure.

This was just a typical day for Grandpa and me. But for Grandma, it was more of a leap of faith. She played the role of ‘back seat driver’ to perfection with exasperated sighs that mirrored Mr. Jensen.

I would overcompensate for Grandpa’s instruction not to hug the side of the road by instead hugging the center line. Grandpa never wavered in remaining calm. He would simply instruct me to aim more for the middle. Grandma, however, tensed in the back seat with muffled gasps.

Without a word exchanged, Grandpa would glance in the rearview mirror, causing Grandma to try harder to convert her winces into coughs.

As we continued through those sixty miles of rolling country highway, I became more confident in my driving. Grandma eased behind us as Grandpa began a casual conversation. Soon, our car time mirrored a typical family road trip. Grandpa knew I was ready to retake the exam.

He took me back to the DMV the following day. This time, I was able to drive us home with my own valid driver’s license. I passed without a single infraction.

Our celebration was short-lived. Months later, our regular seats in the car had switched, not by choice, but by fate. Grandpa had suffered a stroke.

He was transformed from happy to frightened, unable to control his emotions or movements. He was admitted to a hospital 40 miles from our hometown. Grandma, who was uncomfortable driving at night, asked me to transport her back and forth to the hospital.

On these trips, I would watch as Grandpa went through strenuous rehab, learning to walk and talk again. All the things that were once intuitive to him had to be relearned. I safely drove Grandma to him, as Grandpa began to practice living again.

After months had passed, Grandpa was released. Although sleeping at home, he still needed to make frequent trips to the hospital for outpatient therapy. I began driving both he and Grandma back and forth, all of us in our customary seats with me behind the wheel.

Grandpa did learn to drive again, but mainly with a golf cart. One arm never regained full mobility, and he was not permitted to obtain another driver’s license. He enjoyed the freedom of the open road, driving his golf cart through town and bringing some normalcy back to his upended life.

After suffering a second stroke, my beloved Grandpa Gib died at the age of 74. I was twenty-three.

His driving lessons have proven superb. With over forty years of driving experience, I have never been involved in a car accident. My only traffic infraction was a speeding ticket during my college years.

But the genuine pride in my driving skills is not from the longevity of my safety record. My proudest moments are those of hospital drives in the mid-80s.

With Grandma in her spot in the back, Grandpa would sit tall in the passenger seat next to me. His left arm dangling in a sling, he would give me a crooked smile, glancing back at Grandma through the rearview mirror.

With his good arm out the window, Grandpa would quietly enjoy the ride as I carefully delivered him back home.