When my neighbor Trudy Canowitz died at ninety-three, I was heartbroken. Of course I was going to miss her kindness and warmth—but I was also going to miss her driveway. Especially her driveway.
“If you can’t find a parking spot in front of your house, feel free to use my second driveway,” she offered twenty-two years ago, when we moved into the house next door to hers on Easy Breeze Drive.
It probably wasn’t the smartest thing to do—purchasing a home without a driveway in a busy beach town like ours—but who thinks about these things in the dead of winter when there’s ample street parking? At the time, the price was under the asking, and our large one-year-old baby was growing out of the shoebox we rented in Queens.
Cars are for suburbanites, I thought. We city dwellers are masters of the subways; no need to drive or parallel park—just a MetroCard and some Mace, and you’re home.
But now, we had a new home, and subways were out of the proverbial Long Island picture. Cars were a necessity. Fortunately, my husband, Tom, learned to drive when he was a teen. However, I needed to lesson up.
“Are you sure you want to learn to drive at your age?” the first instructor asked, sensing my anxiety, as she watched me down a few Valiums.
The second instructor dumped me after only two lessons: “I really didn’t see that gaggle of geese crossing the road,” I explained and offered to clean the splatter off his windshield.
The third instructor was Tom—and well, I guess it’s a good thing we had a child—or he might have decided to ditch me too.
After the three instructors and several cracks at the road test, I finally passed with almost flying colors.
“Just promise me that you’ll practice parking,” the DMV examiner urged after I hit the curb with a bone-jolting thud. “I will,” I assured her, but really—although I tried—to this day, my parallel parking skills remain…well…unparalleled.
So of course it worked out when Trudy generously offered her second driveway—which only required me to drive into—none of that awkward aligning and backing up business.
And Tom and I showed our appreciation by reciprocating in various neighborly ways:
“Of course, I’ll come over and change your hearing aid batteries.”
“Don’t even think about picking up that dead raccoon in your yard.”
“We don’t mind at all checking to see if there’s someone with a sword hiding in your closet.”
Her passing was hard enough on us, but having both driveways filled with a steady stream of mourners for her weeklong shiva made things even tougher.
Then there was the estate sale that followed; shoppers appeared for three consecutive weekends—taking over both driveways and all vacant curbs in the neighborhood.
Boy, were we grateful when Trudy’s daughter, Betty, said, “You guys were so good to my mom—feel free to use both driveways until the house is sold.”
Trudy’s house remained on the market for under a week.
It was purchased by a large family with teenagers, multiple cars, and a moped.
Who knew that a tiny moped could take up a full parking spot in front of my house? I certainly didn’t until I returned home after moving my car for the first time since the summer began—I had a trunk-load of groceries.
With no vacant spaces available, I circled around for an hour—following people with beach umbrellas, hoping they were heading back to their cars. Finally, I noticed someone leaving—so I hovered nearby, like a hungry vulture waiting to pounce on a rat—and bingo! The spot was free.
I attempted to use what I learned in my lessons, but it was tight, and I had trouble maneuvering my Toyota Corolla between two oversized SUVs. I tried again, hoping that I didn’t take too much paint off the vehicle I tapped. Traffic was backing up behind me. The honking grew louder than those geese that I didn’t see that day crossing the road.
When people started shouting from their windows, “Learn to park, lady,” I figured it was time to move on.
As I woefully drove away, I saw from my rearview mirror one of the now-happy campers behind me pulling into that spot with ease.
I resumed my quest, weaving up and down the same blocks. And then—I saw a space that I hadn’t noticed before. It was wide enough even for a Jeep Wagoneer to glide into. I hit the parking jackpot, I thought, and grabbed it. I unloaded some bags of groceries from my trunk and happily headed home on foot.
Upon my return to pick up my last two bags, I noticed a bright pink ticket waving from the windshield of my car. It turned out there was a fire hydrant a few feet behind me. Anyone could have missed that, I lamented.
As I hopped back in my car, ticket in hand, I thought about Trudy Canowitz—and how she would have waved me into her driveway with a smile. I really miss her—and her parking space.
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Maddy Levi is a freelance copywriter, New York City tour guide, and former director and scriptwriter for Radio City Music Hall’s venue tours. She’s also an emerging creative writer, with a piece forthcoming in Months to Years. When she’s not writing or wandering Manhattan with tourists, she can be found snuggling her rescue dog, Harvey, or eating everything bagels.