So this morning, when dawn was kissing the snow-covered trees, the Youngest Daughter and I were on the street digging out her car. We were lucky insofar as we did not have to chip through a wall of snow and ice left by the snowplow, which is often the curse of not even having a driveway, much less a covered parking area, in winter.
Our house and garage were built in 1902, the same year my maternal grandmother was born. The house has outlasted her, and a lot of other people, and we respect its fine old bones, if not its persnickety old plumbing. But the garage was built in an era when cars were new, rare, and buggy-sized. Currently it serves as the Graveyard of Broken Lawnmowers, because we could only get two-thirds of any particular vehicle inside it. The ancient Mercury Capri our daughters learned to drive on might have fit inside it, but at that time, it held approximately 30 crude volleyball teepees. They were a tight fit.
Once in a while I fantasize about fixing up the garage, putting in a bathroom (it had one once) and creating a little studio/guesthouse. My guess is, I will do this about the same time smart cars become mandatory; one of those should just fit inside the bottom half, and we won’t be running the risk of losing it in the snow.