When I was a child, my dad had his own parking place at the bank, with a sign with his name (Jack Finlayson) on it. The First National Bank of Sault Ste. Marie was a very small-town bank and it really wasn’t a big deal to find a parking place there. There were usually tons of spaces. …aaannnnd… my dad used to walk to work a lot of the time.
Parking place? I don’t need no stinkin’ parking place. But it was kind of a fun little perk, although I doubt that he ever let the fact that he had his own personal parking spot go to his head. He probably made jokes about it. Like the time my parents hosted a bank party at the cabin. Lyndon Johnson was the president and the parents and their friends all voted for Republicans (!) in those days. All the grown-ups got drunk and elected Jack president and the rather glamorous Harriet dubbed herself Harriet Bird, etc. My dad did not have political aspirations and neither do most of the folks in my family so that’s about as far as that went.
I wish I could walk to work but my commute is eight miles so I can’t. But I have my own personal parking place at my work and my dad would’ve loved it. I do not have a sign saying “Kayak Woman” on my parking place. It’s just that we have an under-utilized parking lot and I am the only person who ever parks in my spot. When some outsider parks there, I cannot believe how far my nose gets outta joint. Except when I can tell that the interloper is a birder. Birders can park in my spot if they want. It has a curved crack in it in case anyone wants to know…
My dad’s parking place, in the parking lot of a small downtown bank in Michigan’s upper peninsula, was not as scenic as mine. But he, like me, loved the great outdoors and I think he would have approved of my parking place.