February 2nd, 2011:

In this space I have attempted to dissect the things that divide us as a city. The Things, real or imaginary, that pit us vs. them (whoever them is).

Perhaps the realest divide that we will see in the next few days is clearly marked off with large barriers on either side and often a lawn chair in the center. I’m talking of course, about the winter parking space.

We trudge out in the worst of New England conditions, risking life and limb, shedding sometime blood and more often tears, to dig out our little 9’ X 18’ slice of heaven. The city has attempted to crack down on this defense, justly pointing out that it is their property to regulate, not the lawn gnome that you have placed inside to hold court, but the practice persists. Those that have experienced it (or God forbid, attempted to break it) know that Boston has only one true commandment: thou shalt not park in my dug out spot.

It remains one of the last remnants of urban etiquette from a different age: if you took the time to clear your space, you deserve to reap its benefits.

And the city agrees. Well, sort of. They passed a law a few years back that gave residents 48 hours of street sovereignty following a snow storm to plant their proverbial national flag, represented by an orange cone or a cinderblock with a broomstick, in their very own piece of city-owned real estate. Moving said cone or broom barrier results in another form of street etiquette – the slashing of tires. Not that I condone such behavior (moving the cone), but slashing tires is generally accepted in most parking-stretched neighborhoods as a justifiable penance for breaking of the code. I didn’t grow up in one of those neighborhoods (at least my street wasn’t), but when I recently returned to the house I grew up in the other day, I parked around the corner and was greeted at the door by a quick hello from my mother and an even quicker, “Do you know whose car that is?” as she gestured out the window at a grey sedan parked in the shoveled out space in front of our house. I did not know, and by her expression, I gathered that she didn’t either. Maybe we never used lawn furniture in Dorchester because my mother’s glare from the front porch worked just the same.

In his recent “Less Is More” blog on Boston.com, Garrett Quinn makes the argument that not only is this practice justified; it’s in the city’s best interest. He reasons that drivers who shovel out their spots do the city a service by removing snow from the street. And when they are rewarded by returning to the same shoveled spot, the practice is encouraged. He explains that “the time-tested practice of space saving cuts down on snow compaction, as well as the formation of hazardous blocks of ice. The removal of these hazards benefits everyone in the long term.” A good point he has there. The underlying theme is that if we all do our part, there is a place for all of us. There’s something poetic in that. If anything, it’s something to think about next time you take someone else’s hard earned spot or shovel just far enough to get in your door and flip it into 4 wheel drive. That, and the fact that someone’s probably glaring at you from their front porch window.