It was shortly after midnight on December 23. I passed the cozy homes lining my Ukrainian Village block, looking for a berth for my car. Needless to say, here, as in all neighborhoods, winter storms have depleted the parking by fully a third so parking is hard to come by. What spots remained were staked by a broken garden chair, a heap of crates, each vacancy held for the neighbor who’d dug it out, then-what? The hour was late so perhaps they’d left town for the holidays.
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When spring finally arrives, the streets will be strewn with reminders of our terrible past. We’ll trip over rotting milk crates and slide on drenched cardboard boxes, dodging the piles of slush that pool on every comer. And when I trip over a broken lawn chair and slam my face into the curb, knocking out my front teeth, I’ll smile a toothless smile, think about my $56 fine, and remember all those who made this year’s holiday season so special.
