At my grandfather's birthday party, all family members were expected to give a toast. I have reproduced mine below. I don't go for the sentimental crap other people go for in toasts. You know, the "what-a-great-man-how-I-have-learned-so-much-from-you-and-am-honored-you-breathe-the-same-air-as-me" kind of toasts. Not my thing. Plus, I don't like to cry in front of a room full of people I don't know.
Anyway, here it is. Needless to say, I brought the house down. I rocked the Casbah. I got seven or eight elderly people to use the word "Mojo" in a sentence. Correctly. There is no end to my oratorical prowess.
In the summer before I turned 16, I spent a month with my maternal grandparents. One of the tasks we were to accomplish that summer was me practicing my driving skills. Most of the time, my grandmother let me practice with her Honda Civic. For some reason I will never remember, one day we decided to take my grandfather’s car downtown to the pastry shop. (Of course, I remember why we wanted to go to the pastry shop, what I don’t remember is why we took my grandfather’s car.)
At this time, my grandfather was driving a maroon Toronado. As a kid, I thought this car had mythical properties. I seriously and honestly thought my grandfather was the only one who owned a Toronado - that somehow the car manufacturers decided to make this one car for him and just him. Of course, now I know differently, but there is a small part of me that believes his specific Toronado had mythical powers, even if all others were just normal cars. Anyway, here is a picture of the type of Toronado he had:
It was enormous . . . had a huge front end, giant doors, and was really wide compared to the Honda Civic. Anyway, I safely drove the Toronado downtown and parallel parked (yes parallel parked . . . my grandmother could be a real bitch sometimes) the boat/car in front of the pastry shop. After selecting our pastries, I got back in the car and checked the mirrors. Nothing. So, I started to pull out of the parking space and . . . BOOM . . . was hit by a bus.
Seriously. Hit by a bus.
Now, it couldn’t have been that bad of an impact because the bus didn’t even stop. But my grandmother and I got out of the car and looked at the damage. The driver’s side bumper was bent into the frame. Given the later damage I would cause to other cars, this wasn’t really that bad. However, it was my first car accident and in my grandfather’s mythical Toronado, no less. I burst into tears.
My grandmother, who never had patience for tears, told me to stop crying and assured me it wasn’t that bad. But I was so upset, I couldn’t drive back home. She drove the car home and I ran to the guest room to hide from my grandfather (after all, I had seen him yell at grandchildren for walking barefoot on oriental rugs . . . what would he say about his Toronado?)
After a few minutes, there was a knock at the door. It was my grandfather. He said, "Come with me" and took me to the garage. I started crying all over again. When we got to the car, he said, "Look. I have been analyzing the damage and I have concluded it was not your fault based on the bend of the fender into the frame. By comparing the angle of the fender and the size and location of the dent into the frame, I have concluded the only way for this accident to have happened was that the bus hit you . . . you did not hit the bus. It was not your fault."
Now, I don’t know if that experience made me a better driver, but it did make me a better lawyer. I can tell anyone exactly why something is not their fault.
The second portion of my toast was a story from my grandfather’s second wedding, which was eight years ago. As I was leaving my apartment building to go fly to the wedding, my landlord saw me with the suitcase and asked where I was going:
Me: I’m going to Seattle for my grandfather’s wedding.
Landlord: Really? Wow . . . how old is your grandfather?
Me: 82.
Landlord: REALLY? Man, I hope I have that kind of mojo when I am 82 years old!
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