Sunday, September 24, 2006
The Lost Van
I’m from a family of artists, musicians and social workers. They had some real reservations about my going to law school: “Where’s that going to lead you?” Lives dedicated to service and creativity, though, are often ones to admire, and I am lucky to have been surrounded by those kinds of people.
My mom works, unpaid, at a community center on the Detroit’s East Side called “Crossroads.” It’s a great place; they provide people in need with food, jobs, transportation, and counseling. Mom’s job is to interview the people who come in and evaluate their needs. She’s quite sharp at detecting those whose stories don’t add up, and applies her full and considerable intelligence to the task of parceling out what is available. As you might imagine, there is great demand for what Crossroads has to offer.
Several years ago, my parents bought a used minivan that had only one striking feature: A huge ashtray mounted on the floor between the front seats, apparently created by bolting an inverted metal trash can lid to the frame of the car. After removing the ash tray, mom drove the van for years. By last year, it had nearly 100,000 miles on it, but had been lovingly maintained. One morning she drove it down to Crossroads as usual and parked it behind the building. While she was working, someone stole her old van. It was found later, ruined and stripped, abandoned in a park near the Detroit River.
It’s very possible that one of the people she had helped at Crossroads, at one time or another, had come back and taken her old van. When I heard about the theft from my sister, I was furious. I knew that my parents would be reluctant to replace the van (they ended up buying a used van with over 100,000 miles on it already), and that the only reason my mother was in that neighborhood at all was to help.
The next morning I called my mom to ask about what had happened, fully expecting her to be sitting at the kitchen table abject about the theft. However, when I called, she wasn’t home. She had left already, by bus maybe, to work her normal shift at Crossroads.
My mom works, unpaid, at a community center on the Detroit’s East Side called “Crossroads.” It’s a great place; they provide people in need with food, jobs, transportation, and counseling. Mom’s job is to interview the people who come in and evaluate their needs. She’s quite sharp at detecting those whose stories don’t add up, and applies her full and considerable intelligence to the task of parceling out what is available. As you might imagine, there is great demand for what Crossroads has to offer.
Several years ago, my parents bought a used minivan that had only one striking feature: A huge ashtray mounted on the floor between the front seats, apparently created by bolting an inverted metal trash can lid to the frame of the car. After removing the ash tray, mom drove the van for years. By last year, it had nearly 100,000 miles on it, but had been lovingly maintained. One morning she drove it down to Crossroads as usual and parked it behind the building. While she was working, someone stole her old van. It was found later, ruined and stripped, abandoned in a park near the Detroit River.
It’s very possible that one of the people she had helped at Crossroads, at one time or another, had come back and taken her old van. When I heard about the theft from my sister, I was furious. I knew that my parents would be reluctant to replace the van (they ended up buying a used van with over 100,000 miles on it already), and that the only reason my mother was in that neighborhood at all was to help.
The next morning I called my mom to ask about what had happened, fully expecting her to be sitting at the kitchen table abject about the theft. However, when I called, she wasn’t home. She had left already, by bus maybe, to work her normal shift at Crossroads.
