When I was
about five, my parents left my sister and me with my grandparents for part of a
weekend. I’ve long forgotten what my
parents were doing, whether it was a short vacation or perhaps a family
function at which children weren’t welcome.
I don’t even recall whether the stay with my grandparents was for the
entire weekend or only for Sunday.
But the reason
for and duration of the stay really didn’t matter. Even at age five, spending time with Grandpa
Cy and Grandma Hortense was easy duty.
Hortense was a roly-poly woman who always made special meals and treats
for my sister and I visited we when. Even
if she occasionally seemed like a glass half-empty kind of person, my sister
and I could look the other way. Cy had lived
an eventful life and always had stories to share, including exploits on the
athletic fields of his youth. Within a
few years, I would eagerly await visits by Grandpa Cy because he would play
catch with me for hours on end.
Like most
grandparents, Cy and Hortense kept a supply of toys with which the
grandchildren could play when they visited.
Thus, as the sun set on Sunday evening and the return of my parents was
expected at any minute, I found myself on the living room floor, playing with a
toy car.
As far as
toy cars go, it wasn’t very sophisticated.
It predated most of the Tonka and Matchbox toys. It was a simple pressed metal shape, without verisimilitude
to any known car brand, with a pair of thin wire axles and four tiny rubber
tires. But it rolled surprisingly
well. And on the tight pile carpeting of
my grandparents’ living room floor, I could give it a good shove and it would
roll several feet before coming to rest.
As I played,
I noted that the car would always turn to the right before it stopped. The turn puzzled me. After each push, I would carefully check the
car, trying to understand why it bent right.
Despite not being able to discern a reason, the next push would again result
in a bend to the right.
Grandpa Cy
noted my puzzlement and joined me on the floor.
After watching my befuddlement for several more pushes, he suggested a
small bet on the next push. (In addition
to having been a successful athlete in his youth, he was also a bit of a
sportsman, claiming to have seen both Man o’ War and Seabiscuit during his
Saturdays at the track.) If the car turned
right, he would collect a small wager, perhaps a nickel. If it turned left, I would collect the
nickel.
Despite
numerous previous trials that had all gone right, I remained convinced that it
was a fair bet at even money, so took the bet.
The car went right.
Grandpa Cy
then introduced me to double or nothing.
(I told you he was a bit of a sportsman.) He kept right, I kept left, and the car again
went right. And again went right. And again went right. I remained convinced that a turn to the left
was imminent, so continued to accept his double or nothing propositions.
After six
decades, the arithmetic has become fuzzy.
But I remember that when my parents finally returned, I advised my
father in a matter-of-fact tone that he needed to write Grandpa Cy a check for
a million dollars because I’d had an inexplicable spell of bad luck.
Of course,
everyone, with the exception of me, laughed and no checks were written. And even though I was the butt of the joke, I
don’t retain any ill will. Except for
one point. I wish someone, whether
Grandpa Cy or my engineer father has taken a moment to explain why the darned
car always went right.
After all
this time, I suspect that the toy has been assembled with the front axle turned
just a bit clockwise relative to the rear axle, a deviation that was well
within tolerances for an inexpensive toy, but made it unsuitable for gambling. But I sure wish someone could have given me a
leg-up on that insight those many years ago.
And that,
having taken a circuitous route through my grandparents Southern California living
room circa 1958, leads me to my urbanist resolution for the coming New Year.
Urbanists
tend to point at the failures of suburbia in broad empirical terms. “After seventy years of the suburban
experiment, our streets are crumbling and our municipals coffers dwindling.” “The last three street projects that were
promised to end congestion have only added to congestion.” Or “We keep allowing more shopping centers,
but all that happens is the older shopping centers become derelict.” It’s the land-use planning equivalent of
noting that the toy car always turns right.
But the
suburban advocates aren’t swayed by empirical evidence. Because their worldview demands it, they
believe that the next road project will truly end congestion, that the next
shopping center will balance the municipal ledger, and that the next sprawling housing
project will put their community on the path to permanent prosperity. They aren’t easily dissuaded by a history of
failure. They can’t see any reason why
the toy car won’t turn left at the next push.
So my
resolution for 2015 is to dig deeper, to find more evidence, and to share what
I find, explaining the reasons behind the failure of suburbia.
To be fair,
others are already making these efforts; StrongTowns with their analysis of
property taxes per acre for downtowns versus suburban fringes and traffic engineers
with their analysis of imputed traffic. But
skeptics abound, so more must be done.
My resolution is to cover those efforts, to share them with you, and to
add my voice.
The toy car
isn’t ever going to turn left. And the
sooner we act on that knowledge, the better off will be the generations that follow.
I had
planned to review my resolutions of years past and to share the New Year’s thoughts
of others in this post. But I spent too
many words on Grandpa Cy and a rightward-turning toy car, so those topics will
be deferred to my next post. In the
meantime, have a great New Year’s Eve.
As always,
your questions or comments will be appreciated.
Please comment below or email me.
And thanks for reading. - Dave Alden (davealden53@comcast.net)
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