On Feb. 14, 1997, my grandson Joseph and I went to the Tropicana Restaurant on North Sixth Street in El Centro for an enjoyable lunch as usual. After that we went west from Sixth Street on Euclid Avenue to show him where I used to live with his grandmother and our family until 1960. From there we went on the same street, where we would see where his father, Allan, live during his boyhood.
When we arrived on the east side of Eighth Street at the stop sign, I looked to the north clear to the railroad, which is about two blocks, and we saw nothing. Then we turned to view the south end of Eighth Street and saw two small pickups coming close, so we waited a few seconds to let them pass.
As we drove across Eighth Street in my 1970 LTD Ford that weighed around 4,000 pounds and had a low center of gravity, we slowly and cautiously got halfway across when my grandson yelled "Oh." I did not know what his exclamation meant until we were rammed on the starboard side by a van that has a high center of gravity.