It's been 18 years since we moved into the house at the bottom of the cul-de-sac, at the top of a hill.
Within the first few months, the neighbor and soon-to-be dear friend, walked down to show me the scars on the side of my house. She pointed out the different chips in the brick and explained that one morning, she strapped her children into their car seats, sat in the car, only to realize she had the wrong keys. She dashed back into the house. With the right keys in hand, she passed the big window looking onto the front yard and saw her truck, with her two babies, heading backwards down the hill.
Even writing about this, makes my stomach queasy and my throat swell. It could have been such a disaster--but it wasn't.
When we first inspected the house with a contractor for needed improvements, he asked if we wanted the bricks replaced. I didn't know why, but at the time, I chose not to.
The truck could have kept going down the hill if it had followed the path it was on. It would have flown off the driveway, through our yard and continued down the hill. There were no fences to stop it.
The truck could have smashed into our garage or into the neighbor's concrete and brick front porch. The babies would have been rattled or possibly worse--but the truck didn't smash into walls or fly down the hill; the truck was gently nudged and wedged to safety against our house.
I will never have the brick replaced on the side of our house.