The Garage
By: Robert Carlson
Tags: Neighborhoods, Short Story, Growing Up, Winter, Snow

The Garage

The Place for Misadventures

Growing up in Oakland there was a great benefit to having a house with a detached garage. Instead of the usual garage under the house next to a basement area, the separate building was afforded a character of its own. It was not even the type some suburban houses have where there is a room above and a peak roof.

This one was a red brick structure with a flat roof and a two foot tall parapet around the perimeter. Its surface was wide strips of tarred felt which bubbled in the hot summer sun. Those inch round bumps were fun to pop and moosh back down. Walking the perimeter was a skill well learned. Falling back toward the flat roof rather than off to the ground was likewise a great skill.

The entire structure was tucked into the hillside behind leaving only the front and two ends expose the perils of crashing into the driveway below. Inside was always dark and damp. And cool in the summer. This garage was a double one with the property line running through its middle. Our neighbor usually parked her white Cadillac convertible in her side of the building but could never close the door because the bumper stuck out just a little too much.

Above both doorway openings protruded a curved pipe ending in a green domed lamp to light the driveway. I always loved the look of that type of light and years later fashioned such units to illuminate my deck.

We didn’t close the door either for the most part. This was not due as much to the car not fitting as much as it was far easier to park on the street rather than try to back in or back out of the shared narrow driveway. For a young boy the empty garage was more of a play room than a place to park a car. From ’62 to ’65 the white four-door Corvair would easily fit, but the subsequent Fury Stationwagon would never have been at home in there.

From the mere height of fifteen feet or thereabouts, I could survey the universe of the backyard. When winter provided the bounty of snow there was a whole new activity and misadventure to pursue. One season the weather provided a bumper crop of deep wet snow. There was little space to put such a load between the adjacent houses so I employed a trusty (and now rusty) Radio Flyer wagon to transport the snow to our back yard.

This was the surprise my grandfather brought one day when he came over sometime near one of my birthdays. It was in a plain box. He claimed it fell off the back of a truck on the Parkway when he was coming over. We should open it up and see what it might be. We spent the remainder of the afternoon sitting on the cool concrete cellar floor assembling it.

The snow pile was not yet big enough for what I was fantasying about. Snow from the top of the parapet added to the size. Still not enough. I commence to clear the snow from the entire garage roof, both sides, not just ours. That did it.

It was a good snow pile. It was an inviting snow pile. It was right next to the end of the garage. I tossed the shovel down into the yard and climbed up on the parapet. After standing there for a minute or three, I leaped forward and off the roof. I landed smack at the peak of the pile. I sank all the way into its core up to my neck. My arms were free but my feet and legs were immobile in the snow now packed into an icy cocoon.

There would be more unintended consequences in my life after that day, but this one was both exhilarating and embarrassing. My gloved hands were the only implements available to knock down the snow from around my imprisoned body. Fortunately it was a conical pile and not a broad wide depth of snow. After pushing away most of the snow down to my waist it was far easier to wiggle and kick until there was space enough for me to crawl up and out.

I was the fortunate one. My best friend did stupid stuff too. At around 6 or 7 years old he tied a towel around his neck like a Superman cape and dove off a chair through a glass storm door. He suffered lacerations and a damaged tendon in his forearm. We each had our days and live yet to tell about them.