A police officer pulled over a minivan that was crawling along the road at just 25 miles per hour, causing quite the backup in mid-day traffic. Inside was an elderly gentleman behind the wheel, and a group of older ladies sitting silently, looking like statues—wide-eyed and clutching their purses for dear life. The officer leaned in and asked, “Sir, is there a reason you’re driving so slowly?”

The man replied, “Well, officer, I’m just following the speed limit. The sign back there said 25!” Trying not to chuckle, the officer shook his head. “Sir, that’s not the speed limit—that’s the highway number. You’re on Route 25. The speed limit here is 65.”
“Oh!” said the old man, eyes wide. “Well that explains a lot…” The officer glanced around the van and noticed the elderly passengers looking extremely tense—stiff as boards and pale as ghosts.

He leaned in again. “Is everyone okay? The ladies look… a little shaken…” The man gave a small, sheepish smile and replied, “Well, officer… we just got off Route 119.” That was how the story started, at least. To most people, it was just a funny little roadside misunderstanding—one of those “grandpa doesn’t understand GPS” kind of moments.

But to me, it was something else. Because that man? That was my grandpa His name was Walter Simmons, and those women in the van? That was his Tuesday bridge club—five fierce, opinionated ladies in their 70s and 80s who still wore lipstick, carried embroidered handkerchiefs, and didn’t mess around when it came to card games or pie crusts.

I found out about the whole thing when it hit our local Facebook group. Someone had posted a blurry photo of the van pulled over, captioned: “Why is Route 25 backed up? Because this van thinks 25 is the speed limit ” I almost spit out my coffee when I zoomed in and realized that was Grandpa Walt behind the wheel. I called him immediately. He answered with a chuckle, “You saw the post, didn’t you?”