There Oughta Be a Law. Oh, Wait!

During the frigid temperatures last month, on February 17, I was dismayed to pull onto the parking lot at the Gas Station Chicken Store, and find THIS in my rightful handicap space:

Let the record show that Val was NOT happy! Perhaps "fuming mad" would be the best description. Temps in the teens, windy, and my knees were particularly creaky that day. I did not want to walk an extra inch. Yet here was this truck in MY space! No handicap plate (there's a reason I blanked out the numbers), no handicap placard.

I waited. And waited. Still, it was better than hobbling along in the frigid wind. The longer I waited, the more incensed I became. This driver didn't even park in the space right!

That is what my fellow residents and my old townhouse complex where I met Hick would have called a "Sanford truck." In fact, Hick had an old truck with a similar paint job, and when he'd pick up young HOS (Hick's Oldest Son) and The (Little Future) Veteran for the weekend, residents hanging out at the pool would shout in unison, "Here comes Sanford and sons!" That's kind of an insult, and I don't mean for Hick. Fred Sanford's truck was in much better shape than Hick's, and the truck in the picture!

Anyhoo... the driver of that truck finally emerged, carrying a 32 oz fountain soda in one hand, and a CANE in the other!

Never mind. I figure he needed that parking space. I took it when he left.