What a blessing is the handicapped placard hanging from the rearview mirror of the faithful Suburban. I tend to quick judgment when I see someone my age and looking just as healthy occupying a handicapped parking stall. But I try to turn that emotion into gratitude that I can park close to the store for Mom and Dad. With me driving, they scan the parking lot for the nearest best blue-signed pole. On our first grocery store outing, I pulled neatly into the stall, the passenger tires perfectly parallel and close to the cart-return curb. But the car was so close to the curb that Dad couldn’t get out and nearly fell. So now I look for the van accessible stall and turn wide into it, the driver tires in the hatched lines, with plenty of room for Dad and his shopping cart to maneuver. The three of us form a slow-moving line crossing the drive lane into the store, me in the front waving thanks to the patient cars, and Mom and Dad following—a kind of gaggle in reverse, with the gosling in the lead.