Space Two

There was limited parking for students with cars at my high school.  You either had to get to school early to get one of the covet spots on the streets surrounding the campus, or you had to walk a long way and you could be late for class.

There were, however, a few places to park that were reserved. They were hard to come by and you had to do work in advance to get them.  One was a parking lot right in the middle of the campus it seemed.  It was a private lot owned by a company.  Prior to the start of the school year, if you remembered, asked your parents, convinced them it was wort the cost or came up with a way to pay for it yourself, you could buy a space for the calendar year.  And I wanted one.

My negotiating or wheedling skills must have been on that day, because my parents agreed and I got them the information to get a spot for the following year, my senior year.   But there was one other option.

The school had a few spots they would give to seniors.  They gave them out via lottery and they were completely free.  These spots were just as close, and they were coveted by all car-enabled rising seniors.

My boyfriend at the time was a senior, and he had one of those amazing parking spots.  His was more amazing because it was closer to the entrance than even most of the teacher spots.  I'm not sure why students could be so lucky, but I kept hoping I'd get one.

As my boyfriend was leaving that year, in the school's newspaper he left me space number two, his parking spot.  One of our favorite teachers, Mister Gunter, and our math team coach read Bill's note.  When he saw me he said, "I see Bill left you his parking spot for next year, good luck."  Mister Gunter wasn't known for humor.  He was firm but an excellent teacher.  Oh, and quirky.  Excessively quirky. 

When the lottery happened and the results were up, I went to the board and looked.  My name was by space number two.  This can not be true.  My mind boggled.  I wanted a spot, any spot.  I never dreamed I'd get Bill's spot.  I walked away dazed.  I checked that list between every class that day and the results were always the same.  Space two.

I went to see my mother at her office after school.  She was thrilled for me.  I believe (or at least I remember it this way) that she and I jumped up and down together.  It doesn't sound like my mother, but she's that supportive and I was certainly excited enough.

I was able to sell the parking space I'd reserved and paid for easily.  And I parked all year long in my amazing space.  I even got a license vanity plate that said "SPACE TWO."   Did Mister Gunter rig the lottery?  It doesn't sound like him.  But I almost prefer those odds to the chance that I'd get my name pulled for Bill's exact parking spot.

The Big Boy Update:  Shelf up.  We've had some problems with the "Harry Potter closet" of late.  Problems in that suddenly things on higher shelves are more interesting and a challenge to reach.  He's short, but there are things he can get to if he constructs a platform of toys or re-purposes a stool.  I found him earlier with every toy on the floor in the back of the closet.  Where was he?  He was happily laying on the second shelf up.  I don't know how he planned to get down without landing on the pile of pokey toys.  Maybe they learn to plan ahead when they're older.

The Tiny Girl Chronicles:  Splash and Roll.  I keep forgetting to shut the door to the bathrooms.  She has hit the age of unrolling.  If she can get to a roll of toilet paper, it's doomed.  We have more than one lopsided, rerolled roll in the house right now.  And then there's the splash.  I'm changing her brother and I hear splish splash sounds in coming from the bathroom.  Bother.  I forgot to close the lid on the toilet again.  We're having hand washing lessons now and mommy is in remedial bathroom training.

Fitness Update:  No exercise today, due to Practice Thanksgiving.  Dear tomorrow's weigh-in: I would like to apologize in advance.

Someone Once Said:   Remind me to write an article on the compulsive reading of news. The theme will be that most neuroses can be traced to the unhealthy habit of wallowing in the troubles of five billion strangers.