Example 1: Son, traditional and reverent, about 3-4 minutes
539 words · about 4 min spoken
My name is Diego Morales. I am Rafael Morales’s son. We are all here today because we loved him, and because he meant something to each of us.
Dad was a quiet, steady man. He was the kind of person who woke up before the sun, even after he retired. His hands were always stained with a little grease, no matter how much Lava soap he used. He didn’t say much, but he was always listening. And he whistled while he worked, a low sound that filled the house with calm.
He grew up in Laredo, Texas, the oldest of six children. At fourteen, he started fixing cars to help his mother keep things going. That was the beginning of a life built around hard work and taking care of his family. In 1978, he married my mom, Teresa, and together they raised me, Ana, and Lupe. For 35 years, he ran Morales Auto Repair on Zarzamora Street in San Antonio. The shop was his second home, and in many ways, ours too.
Dad loved his old Chevy C10 pickup, the one he restored himself, and Spurs games on the radio. About every plan he made, he would say, “Si Dios quiere”—God willing. It was his way of remembering who is really in charge, and it taught us to be humble.
There are a thousand memories I could share, but a few stand out. When I was sixteen, I backed his Buick into the neighbor’s mailbox. I remember bracing myself for his anger. He just looked at the damage and said, “Okay. Now you learn how to fix it.” We spent three Saturdays in the garage straightening that bumper. When we finished, he handed me the keys. “Now you know what it costs.” That was his way—he taught through action, through patience. Years later, when my son Mateo was born, Dad drove four hours through the night. He walked into the hospital at five in the morning in his work shirt and handed me a thermos of coffee. He was always there, quietly, when you needed him.
If you ever went into his garage, you’d see coffee cans, each one labeled in his handwriting: “misc,” “misc 2,” and “good misc.” We still laugh about that, because none of us know what the difference was. Maybe he did, or maybe it just made sense to him. It’s one of those small things that was just Dad.
He taught us to do things right, or do them twice. He lived by that rule every day. And while he never talked about it, he fixed cars for free for widows and single moms from our parish for years. We only learned about it from the thank-you cards that came this week.
I want to thank my mom, Teresa, for standing beside him for forty-eight years, my sisters Ana and Lupe, and Gloria, his hospice nurse, who let him talk about that Chevy C10 whenever he wanted.
Every night, my father prayed Psalm 23 before he went to bed. “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.” Those words will stay with me, as he did.
Dad, the truck is running fine. I’ll keep it that way. Rest now. You’ve earned it.
What the writer told Toastful to get this speech
- Speaker
- Diego, son
- Personality
- Dad was a quiet, steady man who got up at 5 a.m. every day, even after he retired. His hands were always a little black with grease, no matter how much Lava soap he used. He didn't say much, but he listened, and he whistled while he worked.
- Life story
- He grew up in Laredo, Texas, the oldest of six, and started fixing cars at 14 to help his mother pay the bills. He married my mom, Teresa, in 1978 and ran Morales Auto Repair on Zarzamora Street in San Antonio for 35 years.
- What they loved
- His 1968 Chevy C10 pickup that he restored himself, and Spurs games on the radio. About every plan he made, he said 'Si Dios quiere,' God willing.
- Stories
- When I was 16, I backed his Buick into the neighbor's mailbox and crushed the bumper. He didn't yell. He just said, 'Okay. Now you learn how to fix it,' and we spent three Saturdays in the garage straightening it out together. At the end he handed me the keys and said, 'Now you know what it costs.' Years later, when my son Mateo was born, Dad drove four hours through the night and walked into the hospital at 5 a.m. in his work shirt with a thermos of coffee for me.
- A lighter moment
- He never threw away a single screw. The garage is full of old coffee cans labeled in his handwriting: 'misc,' 'misc 2' and 'good misc.' None of us know what the difference is, and now we never will.
- Legacy
- His rule was 'Do it right or do it twice.' He also fixed cars for free for widows and single moms from our parish for decades and never told anyone. We only found out from the cards that came this week.
- Acknowledgements
- My mother, Teresa, his wife of 48 years, my sisters, Ana and Lupe, and Gloria, the hospice nurse who let him tell her about the C10 every single day.
- Quote or faith
- Psalm 23, which he prayed every night before bed.
- Goodbye
- Dad, the truck is running fine. I'll keep it that way. Rest now. You've earned it.