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

“Pull over! Slowly…Just pull over slowly.”

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 with me - 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 these 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 be the one to drive us both home. Instead, I embarrassingly shared my failure with Grandpa Gib, as he stayed behind the wheel on 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 to me with ease? 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, favoring 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.

Grandpa’s 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 county highways. Learning how to check my mirrors and use turn signals properly, Grandpa later 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 next driving exam. He chose a sixty-mile trip that included a short visit to my aunt’s home, and my grandma in tow.

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

This was just a typical day for a driving lesson with 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 of the road. 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 highways, I became more confident in my driving. Grandma eased behind us as Grandpa began a casual conversation. Soon, our trip home mirrored a typical family road trip. Grandpa knew I was ready to retake my driving 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 our happy grandpa to a frightened man, unable to control his emotions or movements. Admitted to a hospital 40 miles from our hometown, Grandma, who was Uncomfortable driving at night, asked me to drive her back and forth to the hospital.

On these trips, I would stay with Grandma at the hospital 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 transported Grandma back and forth to him, as Grandpa went back to being a student, practicing how to live again.

After months in the hospital, 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 seating positions 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 driving Grandpa back and forth to rehab in the mid-80s.

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

My driving required no instruction, so few words were spoken. With his good arm out the window, Grandpa would instead quietly enjoy the ride as I carefully delivered him back home.