Apparently, when I drive, I check my rearview mirror a lot. I don’t know what “a lot” is. I just know that when I was learning to drive, my driving instructor - Grandpa - taught me to look up to that little mirror often, and it stuck.
I still remember the oppressive heat of that Nebraska summer. I was 15 and hadn’t really wanted to come back to America for three months, not when all my friends would be swimming at Millstätter Lake and my best friend was going to be at camp without me. Perhaps I didn’t show it much on the outside, but my heart was resentful as we started off that summer. I complained to my Mom that the extended family just didn’t get me or our life. In her practical way, she replied “Then get to know them and their life.” The only consolation of the summer seemed to be that I would get to learn how to drive. So here we were, the Grandpa I felt I didn’t know very well and me, sitting in the minivan in the vacant Anselmo-Merna High School parking lot with the air conditioning blasting our faces.
“All right, ease her into drive with your foot on the brake.”
I followed his instructions and was elated to feel the car roll into motion as I slowly released the brake. Excitedly I pushed down on the accelerator, which caused us to jump, then of course quickly removed my foot again which caused us to jerk back to a near standstill. Grandpa’s whole frame and lurched back, then forward, and he braced himself on the dashboard.
“Sorry.” I muttered.
He laughed. “It’s what I expected.”
Proving himself to be a patient coach, he worked me up to multiple smooth circles around the gravel lot. Finally he declared I was ready for the open road and directed me out onto the road.
“Check your rearview mirror,” he said, and I chuckled. There was no one else at the parking lot but us. “You’ll be surprised how often someone sneaks up behind you, and it’s your job to be aware of your surroundings.”
I thought we’d drive for about 20 minutes, but he led me on a trek all over Custer county, calling out turns, sometimes with lots of time to plan and sometimes last minute to see how I’d respond. At one point, he turned off the A/C and rolled down the windows so we could take in the dusty summer air and smell all that “money” (which my brother insisted was poop). I ventured to ask him about some of the towns we drove through, and he had a story for each and every one, and together they started to paint a picture of a Grandpa who loved adventure and nature. Perhaps we had more in common than I thought. And don’t you know he told me to check my rear view so much until it became rote.
When we rolled back into the driveway of the Merna home he lived in for over 40 years, I turned off the ignition, pulled out the keys, and handed them to him. “Thanks for the lesson, Grandpa,” I said. He reached over and put a hand on my shoulder. “I love you, sweetie.” I’m sure he had said those words before, but it’s my first definite memory of him verbalizing them.
The summer I was 17 we were all in Oregon for a while. My driving had become smoother, and I remember one day the family let me take the wheel for the excursion to the coast. Grandpa regaled us with stories of his logging days, so much so that I was enthralled at one point and missed the giant semi that had pulled all the way up on my rear and clearly wanted me to go faster. When he laid on the horn, I nearly jumped out of my skin. "Ah, forgot to check your rearview mirror, didn't you," Grandpa chuckled, before sticking his arm out the open window and breathing in the fresh Oregon sea air. "I love me a good road trip," he sighed.
10 days ago, I facetimed with him for the last time before his passing on May 6th. He was in a hospital bed with tubes coming every which way out of his chest, hands, and even face. Breathing was difficult, so our conversation was kept to a minimum, but I was able to tell him how much I loved him and thanked him for being my Grandpa. As my aunt got ready to move the phone away, he whispered something that I didn’t catch. “What?” I asked, wanting to catch his last words to me. Aunt Janet held the phone closer and prompted him to repeat himself. He took a deep breath: “See you down the road.”
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