I believe perhaps there are too many cars on American streets
Too many in yards, too. The house next door is 800 square feet. A Charger and a Veloster, driven by women, are there at night. There are also a dozen big pickups on that 1/3 acre, most of them 24 hours a day. Fifteen years ago, the homeowner parked his non-functioning pickup beside a tulip poplar, which he killed by girdling. When it came down on the truck, neighborhood insurance rates soared. He used his windfall to erect a steel garage as big as his house for his friends to keep the loud Harleys that they ride occasionally for show. Maybe the pickups are occasionally driven for show by friends with no place to park them at home.
The house across the street was built in 1960 with a 24-foot concrete driveway, which was available for basketball because cars were kept in the 24-foot wide carport, enclosed on 3 sides. A 50-year-old couple bought it in 1989. They parked on the driveway and used the carport to display their possessions. The man's aunt died about 2000. Her rusting 1980 Buick remains to this day, proudly displayed beside the driveway.
Around the corner, their front door was 55 feet from the street. By 2006, there were TVs big enough to watch from 35 feet. They extended a room 20 feet toward the street, put in a picture window, and bought a huge TV, not for watching but to leave on for passers-by to see 24 hours a day.
About that time, their 45-year-old son, a college-educated telephone talker, came home with his new F-150. He also brought his little KIA. It no longer ran but took a place of honor beside the driveway. His mountain bike, which he'd almost never ridden, went on display in the carport.
The man drove a Ranger. After his wife died, he had no reason to drive his Grand Marquis, but after 11 years it remains in its place of honor in the driveway, unregistered and paint peeling. Somewhere he acquired an old Chevy pickup, which sat by the KIA. I didn't see it used except during a week when his Ranger was in the shop.
The son bought a refurbished electric golf cart, drove it around the block, and put it on display in the carport. By now, he'd have to buy new batteries to use it. A few weeks ago, the man sold the old Chevy to his son-in-law, who hired a roll-off to haul it 60 miles to his house. The son told me he was offended. Besides the three abandoned cars, the abandoned pickup had been an important status symbol. What would passers-by think of him now?
He quickly made up for that by buying an extended-cab Tundra. It didn't make sense to me. His F-150 was running fine. Its "grille" was only 42 inches high, helping him to see bicyclists and others. The Tundra was 58 inches at the grille and tailgate. It was bound to gulp gas. He said he needed it because of the miles on his F-150, but he left the Tundra parked and drove the Ford.
The house was about 1100 square feet with 9-foot eaves. A contractor went to work on a 600-square-foot addition with 12-foot eaves. The son, now 65, explained that he's about to retire. He'll have time to drive 60 miles to visit his sister and her husband. To drive so far, he'll need a camper 12 feet high and much too heavy for his F-150. I doubt it. He doesn't have a particular trailer in mind,but fully loaded, the heaviest travel trailer is under 3 tons, while the least capable F-150 is rated for 4 tons.
Like a carport, his cathedral has open sides so passersby can admire his Tundra and later be awed by his trailer. I'm lucky because all I have is a couple of bikes. When I need attention, all I have to do is pedal around with my shirt tail sticking out my open fly.
The self that many Americans wish to present is possessions, particularly motor vehicles. It comes from an epidemic of self-consciousness dating back to 1920, when women got the vote. Six or eight years of compulsory education had become standard for kids born in the late Victorian and Edwardian eras. They walked to school. As they waited in the schoolyard for the bell, they did what kids love most: making friends. The result was a generation with democratic values that middle-class Victorian mothers found disturbingly unpatriotic.
In a coordinated effort, mothers in all states elected legislators who would revolutionize compulsory education. Each morning, every child was required to render a Bellamy salute and pledge allegiance in words he did not understand. Like-minded German mothers, who had also gotten the vote, admired and adopted the idea, changing the name to the Nazi salute. They persuaded a reluctant Hitler to come out of retirement and speak from the heart to the children.
To many mothers, "friend" was a synonym for "bad influence." Female school teachers excelled at preventing friendship by preventing students from speaking freely. They were to shut up and sit still while she spent the day passing judgment, and by example, conditioning students also to be judgmental. The problem was loitering in schoolyards, where kids could interact candidly because nobody was in a position to pass judgment. Consolidation was the key. In larger schools as in prisons, crowd control was vital. Arriving students were not allowed to loiter and interact. They had to report to homerooms, where Big Brother was watching. How can you make friends with judgmental eyes and ears all around?
(Education rolled off me like water off a duck's back. I once sat through a lecture playing with the hair of a beautiful coed. I'd never seen her before, but she had the good fortune to sit in front of me, so I assumed it was meant to be. I'm sure that made a much bigger impression on her than displaying a pickup truck. It made a huge impression on the boys who saw it. They were amazed that she didn't show the slightest annoyance. I guess she wasn't judgmental. School conditions you to assume that your peers are judgmental. "Low self-esteem" is a term for that fear.)
