My neighbor threatened me over where I parked my old Honda. The next morning, I found a boot on my wheel. So instead of arguing, I sent her something she definitely wasn’t expecting.
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Last month, my daughter Megan and her husband, Chris, moved in with me while their kitchen and downstairs bathroom were being renovated.
They told me it would be three weeks.
“They also said the demolition would be clean.”
I laughed.
“Contractors said three weeks?”
Chris sighed.
“Four, maybe.”
Megan looked at him.
“They also said the demolition would be clean.”
Since Megan had my two grandchildren with her, I told her to use the driveway.
We all knew what that meant.
My house is older and comfortable, but the driveway is tiny. It fits one car without making everybody perform a complicated morning shuffle.
Since Megan had my two grandchildren with her, I told her to use the driveway.
“I’ll park on the street,” I said.
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“Mom, you don’t have to.”
Since Megan had my two grandchildren with her, I told her to use the driveway.
“It’s public parking. I’ll survive.”
That sentence turned out to be more important than I expected.
I didn’t think twice about it. We’d lived there for years, and neighbors parked wherever space opened up.
For the first few nights, I parked wherever there was an open space. Sometimes in front of my own house. Sometimes farther down.
Then one evening, I parked along the curb in front of my neighbor Linda’s house.