Parking at Coney Island

A recurring scene from childhood: pulling up to the gate of the parking lot at Brooklyn’s Coney Island, my dad behind the wheel, my (maternal) grandfather sitting next to him.

(That must mean that there were four people sitting in the back: my grandmother, my mother, my brother, me. It was a big car, a Plymouth Savoy. And we were all varying degrees of small .)

Anyway — I remember my dad and my grandfather vying, again and again, to pay for parking, my grandfather reaching across to the attendant, my dad trying to block the attempt. Let me pay. No, I have it. They were men of honor.

I learned from my mom just a few days ago how much it cost to park at Coney Island: ten cents. So it was a game. They were men of honor and men of play.