What memories and lessons were my own children denied by not having a garage attached to our house? Certainly we have our own memories that grew from the deprivation—like getting tough here on the high desert. A garage is not considered a luxury where fluctuating temperatures and unpredictable weather patterns mean a car gets exposed to traumatizing shifts—and so do we. A garage is a necessity that we didn’t have. I’ve helped the girls jump-start dead batteries on rainy mornings, watching them headstrong and primed for the worst like Xena, warrior princess. There is something essentially purif5ring about being exposed to the elements and learning to work with them, not against them, unprotected and unpampered. Some primeval instinct settles in; it is innately and deeply satisfying to know you can do what you don’t want to do, to jump into the fray and rescue yourself. I’m kind of glad we didn’t have a garage.
But snowy winter mornings do more than send a chill down the spine when you don’t have a garage. Getting to school (never canceled for inclement weather) meant shoveling a path across our front deck, down the steps, and across the yard to the driveway. The girls eventually caught on that snowfall meant getting out of bed fifteen minutes earlier. After coffee and showers, it wasn’t unusual to see one of them in slippers and pajamas wielding the wide flat snow shovel with dogged determination. Then she would jump in the car, turn on the ignition, and screw up the heat fill blast. With the long-armed scraper, two inches of powder swiped easily off the windshield to filter down her sleeves. Ice under the snow wasn’t so forgiving, but the elbow grease painted roses on my daughters’ cheeks.