Friday, April 8, 2011

The Neighborhood (continued)

Escape

Months into 1960, my father purchased a new ’59 Pontiac.   Built like a small aircraft carrier, its wide hood and fins challenged tight spaces.  He chose a station wagon because the family expanded with the addition of two more foster children.  The roominess provided comfort needed for our frequent road trips to Ferndale, Vancouver or Portland.  Dad protected his investment by leasing a garage from Maryknoll Church,  down the street.

I didn’t have a car and needed one for my upcoming prom.   Showing up in a new ride…even if it was a station wagon…would surely impress my date.  I badgered my father for months before he relented.

After a night of dancing, I blearily returned home.   Lined the car up to negotiate the garage entrance. Stepped forcefully on the accelerator.  Grimaced as the passenger-side scraped against the concrete.  Damned the width and wings.

I crept into the house…resolved to fess up.  Honesty the best policy.  Better a quick death.  Peered into my parent’s darkened bedroom and whispered apologies for the damage.  Not hearing a protest, I quietly slunk into my room.  Tomorrow another day.

The following morning, I tumbled to the kitchen.  Mom hovered over the stove. “Where’s dad?  Is he mad?"  I explained my accident.

“Don’t worry.  He’s down looking at it.  He did the same thing last week.”

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