Some grandmas baked cookies and knitted sweaters. Mine? She preferred the smell of burnt rubber and high-octane gasoline.
Grandma Cooper’s 1969 Chevrolet Nova wasn’t anything flashy by today’s standards—a simple 250-cid Inline-Six with a three-on-the-tree manual shifter. But in her hands, that car might as well have been a Formula 1 racer. She didn’t just drive; she attacked the road. Wide Open Throttle. Drive It Like You Stole It. Lead Foot—those weren’t just sayings, they were her personal driving philosophy.
Now, you might be wondering how a young boy like me knew about things like engine displacement and gear ratios. The answer’s simple—I was my dad’s co-pilot in car talk. I devoured every issue of Hot Rod, Motor Trend, and Sports Cars Illustrated (back before it became Car & Driver). My dad would quiz me as he drove, tossing out names like “Chevelle” or “Mustang Mach 1,” and I’d proudly rattle off horsepower and cubic inches like I was announcing race stats at Daytona.
My sister Nancy used to marvel at how Grandma could drive with just one finger on the steering wheel. As kids, we thought it was the height of coolness—until we realized as adults that maybe it was a little too cool. Let’s just say none of us have tried to recreate that trick.
Grandma had a way of blending wisdom and wit behind the wheel. She’d quote racing legends without us knowing it. “No one wants to quit when he’s losing, and no one wants to quit when he’s winning,” she’d say, her eyes on the horizon. Only years later did I learn those were the words of “The King” himself, Richard Petty. And she’d always remind us, “The good Lord doesn’t tell you what His plan is, so all you can do is get up in the morning and see what happens next.”
She’d grin that mischievous grin and add, “Two of my favorite things are my steering wheel and my grandkids.”
To this day, we can’t help but laugh when we picture her perched proudly on three thick yellow phone books just to see over the dashboard. Cruise control? She didn’t need it. If her right foot got tired, she’d just switch to her left—problem solved.
That Nova wasn’t just a car; it was an extension of Grandma Cooper’s spirit. Fierce. Independent. A little wild. And absolutely unforgettable.
Even now, whenever I hear the growl of an old engine or smell a whiff of exhaust on a summer afternoon, I can almost see her again—one hand on the wheel, phone books underfoot, and that unstoppable sparkle in her eye.
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