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How Grandpa Won The War And Other Driving Tales.

Phoenix had the most incredible infrastructure I had ever seen. The roads were pristine and well thought out road signs made it easy for the most retarded driver to find their way around the city. Yet Grandpa remained an infamous road hazard. I dreaded riding with him as one would dread the dropping of the boat ramp at Omaha Beach on D-day. His weapon of choice was the biggest Cadillac he could find. He joked that he needed a new model every two years because "the ashtrays would be full."

With a giant cigar clenched in his lips, he would order me into the car and climb behind the steering wheel. A turn of the key once the engine was running and the alternator's screech would snap him back into a moment of reality.

"Son of a b!" he would swear, as he put the boat into gear.

I would take a quick glance at his house and wonder if I would ever see it again. Off we'd move while he hummed some unrecognizable tune between puffs of his cigar. He was mobile and that was his greatest joy.

Once Grandpa was on the road, his own set of rules took over. The broken white lines that divided lanes became his guide to stay on the road. Moving with a bit of a back and forth swerve, he would have the line planted directly under his El Dorado. His stature of five feet nothing was bolstered only by the width of his beaded seat cover. My six foot height shrank as I slumped in the seat next to him, awaiting the inevitability of a passenger in a passing car throwing bad looks, a middle finger or hot lead towards Grandpa, through me, of course.

It never took long for the line of other vehicles to pile up behind the Caddy. Honking and shouting never phased him. "Go around me! Go around me!" Grandpa always shouted with his windows rolled up, believing they could see him waving inside his car.

"MOVE IT, GRAMPS!"

"GET THAT BOAT OFF THE ROAD!"

Those were two of the more popular and printable shouts of encouragement Grandpa would receive from those driving behind the S.S. Immovable object, as I had deemed his car. I had learned, at a very young age, that Grandpa didn't like any suggestions about driving tips. Phrases like "this is a one way street," "the turn you wanted was back there about 36 miles" and "gee, that sign said army personnel only" was met with a cold stare that chilled one better than the air conditioner he refused to use in the 115 degree Arizona heat.

"Um, Grandpa," I gulped, stepping into the forbidden territory. "perhaps you should

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