Lot's Parking

On the street where I live, there is so little "traffic," passage of more than five vehicles an hour requires a parade permit. It's so unused, it requires dusting more often than resurfacing. The street is so pristine, pedestrians are asked to remove their shoes … you get the idea.

So, back in the far-flung days when minivans were deemed an acceptable means of family travel (if there truly was such a time), it seemed safe to park our Plymouth Voyager on the street in front of our house. And it was, until the night someone sideswiped the length of the van. Sideswiped-and-ran. Apparently side mirrors for the Voyager were crafted of platinum, shined to high reflectivity, if cost is any indication.

After leaving an arm and leg with the body shop to get it repaired, we weren't going to risk further damage to a vehicle in which I was more deeply invested than the storyline of Twin Peaks. We parked it in the driveway from then on. You know, to keep it safe from damage.

Next to a massive oak tree. Who knows if it was high winds alone, or the love tap it took from a box truck, or both, that caused a substantial limb to become separated from the tree. All that's known with certainty is that the Voyager got wood in a most unpleasant way, crushing the roof this time.

At least I learned a lesson from this vitarogenic moment. I traded the Plymouth for a chainsaw. And I keep it in the garage.

—James A. Gardner