We’re having our driveway ripped up and replaced and it has brought me endless amusement watching the parents who drop their kids off at the elementary school across the street from us. Ours is the perfect driveway to turn around in after drop-off, a fact that the realtor neglected to mention 20 years ago when she was showing the house. Something about the location, the angle, the ‘No U-turn’ sign, whatever, has always made our driveway the unspoken alternative. Generally, it doesn’t bother us or have any effect other than afford us the opportunity to observe human behavior and this week has been textbook.
This is how things look at 8:15 in the morning: On one side of the driveway is a huge dumpster filled to the brim with chunks of old concrete and gravel. On the other side is the contractor’s truck. Flanking both of these are the cars belonging to Husband and I. Across the driveway is a yellow caution tape that extends from the street to our house. Bricks are stacked against the curb. No one else on our block is having work done. Which makes it all so amazing that people still try and turn around in our driveway. One by one they push Junior out of their giant SUV and proceed on automatic pilot 100 feet down the block where they swing a wild turn into the place they have turned around for generations, perhaps following in the tire treads of their ancestors, our driveway.
On the day the cement truck arrived, they honked for it to get out of their way so they could maneuver a three-point turn after realizing the path was blocked. This was as cement was literally pouring down the spout. We live on a through street, by the way, not a dead end, so people can just keep driving if they put their thinking cap on. One mother glared at me as I pulled away to go to my own school. I rolled down my window and called out.
“What is it you’re trying to do?”
“I just want to turn around.”
“Our driveway is ripped up.”
“Well, I have to turn around.”
“While you’re waiting would you like to come in and pee? We’re having the bathroom ripped out, too.”
When I told this to Husband he shook his head at how eager people are to disregard warnings. I shook my head back and he knew what I was thinking. We had just returned from our vacation in the Southwest during which time we spent a day in Flagstaff on a motorcycle. Ever mindful of my fear of highway speed on a Harley, Husband thoughtfully requested routes for leisurely travel on scenic roads. On past trips we have ridden across the Painted Desert and over the Continental Divide and Husband knows my terrors better than he knows his own because I make sure of it.
We took a lovely ride up toward the Grand Canyon and then the weather turned ominous. Fearing rain and slick canyon roads, Husband opted for the highway instead. I don’t remember voting. In fact, I remember screaming, “NOOOO!!!” but it was probably lost in the 75-mile-an-hour wind biting into my cheeks and the trucks spewing gravel against my lips.
I do remember him asking as we pulled off the highway if that wasn’t better than getting soaked on a winding canyon road. But he knew he was in the clear. By the time I regained the ability to speak I had forgotten the question.
Women In Motion is today’s picture theme. Three of the following are Daughter’s Fotos from the 3rd Annual Deitch Art Parade in Lower Manhattan. The fourth is an impostor. Test your skills.
blue rider
red rider
naked rider
easy rider