I’ve dabbled in fiction over the years, writing a few short stories, and, like many other writers, have attempted to write a couple of novels. However, I have come to the conclusion that my genre is personal essay and I’ve never put enough effort into writing fiction to get good at the craft. Sometimes, however, I like to imagine stories. Like every other place we have lived, our town is full of stories and I don’t know many of them. There is a pallet of cardboard boxes, wrapped in blue plastic wrap sitting in a driveway a few blocks from our house. It has been there for quiet a while with no one making an attempt to undo the plastic or deal with the contents. I’ve commented about it several times when we have walked or driven by. I don’t know the story, but that big package invites speculation and would be a good prompt for a fiction exercise.

Sometimes when we walk around the neighborhood, I see children playing in front yards and the street. Often I don’t know which children come from which house, and I think that there could be some good stories there. I sometimes make up short stories about other drivers on the freeway, people we see in a store, or the people who bring preschool children to play at the tot lot across the street from our office at the church.

Yesterday as we were walking along the brim between the beach and the main drive in Birch Bay, we noticed that tourist season is in full swing. About a third of the cars parked along the street had British Columbia license plates. Maybe half of the cars had Washington plates. The remaining vehicles had plates from several different states and provinces. Whenever we see plates from Montana, which we did yesterday, I try to comment on the county as Montana plates begin with a number designating the county where they were issued. So many different trips have been made to come to our part of the country. A small car had been driven from Virginia all the way across the US to be parked in our village. A new SUV, licensed in Kalispell, Montana, was waiting for its owner to return.

An old pickup truck parked right next to a brand new convertible go me to thinking about what story might be behind those vehicles. There are two parking places reserved for persons with disabilities across the street from a brew pub. One was occupied by an old Dodge two-wheel drive, single cab pickup with faded blue paint and quite a few dents. The truck appeared to be sporting its original paint and a little rust from a life of more than 40 years. It had a Washington State farm vehicle sticker. I don’t know the rules applying to farm vehicles in our state, but I have seen vehicles with official stickers on the back that designate them as farm vehicles. I suspect that there are certain taxes that are waived for those vehicles. The windows were rolled down. I’m sure that rolled was the right verb in the case of the truck. I doubt that it sported electric window actuators. A temporary disabilities parking tag hung from the rear view mirror.

Right next to the pickup in the other disability parking place, also sporting a parking tag hanging from the rear view mirror was a new Toyota convertible with shiny pearlescent paint. The top was down, but all of the windows were rolled up. Perhaps it had been driven on the freeway, or at least on one of the roads where it is legal to drive fast. It looked like it had enjoyed a trip going much faster than the pickup next to it.

Of course, I know nothing of the owners of the vehicles. There are many different types of disability that would merit the parking tags. It is possible that one of the people in the vehicles was recovering from a major illness. Perhaps there had been an accident. Other people might have experienced disability from their birth.

I like to imagine that the owner of the pickup truck was an elderly gentleman who had been working all of his life on a farm in the area. He doesn’t travel much, just an occasional trip to town for groceries or parts. The owner isn’t the kind of guy who sits around on the beach and he isn’t much for trendy brew pubs. He prefers the familiar places that have been around for a long time. Somehow he ended up in Birch Bay, perhaps after making a delivery of straw bales for the landscaping of one of the new million dollar homes. The owner decided to stop for a quick beer on a hot evening before heading home. Like his pickup, he had seen some better days. Hard work and age had combined to leave him with a slow limp in place of the steady gate that had marked decades of his life. I imagine he is sitting a bit uncomfortable in his work clothes at the bar, sipping his beer, a bit taken back at its price. His wallet, never flush with cash, is particularly empty and it is too early in the month for the money to be so short.

I imagine that the owner of the convertible arrived with a date in the other seat. Their hair had been blowing in the wind over the car and they ran their fingers through their hair as they made it across the street to the pub. It was a destination as they enjoyed sampling the brews from small micro breweries up and down the coast. The owner of the car had lived with disability since birth and had achieved success in spite of a condition that left others dependent. Sampling a few different brews is a summer passion and having friends with whom to share the experience is important. A plastic card was used to pay without thought of the cost. A few beers is a minor expense in the scheme of things.

Of course, I don’t know the stories. I’m sure that they are far from the truth. Still, I like to imagine that the owners of the two vehicles shared a brief conversation yesterday and that both of them got a bit of joy from the exchange. It is a story that remains to be written.