People occasionally ask me where I get my ideas for my columns. Sometimes, it’s a chance conversation that keeps itching in my brain. Other times, it’s something that happens, say, a crazed scrub jay terrorizing me because it built a nest in my yard, or something I see, such as a driver behaving awfully. Much of the time, it’s pure deadline terror that makes me claw at the tree of inspiration.

This week, it’s something I saw — a license plate looming in the darkness of my garage when I peeked out to make sure the automatic door had closed properly. It’s been acting up, and so a couple of weeks ago, I accidentally left it open all night, and that same night my wife dreamed someone was in our house. She’s convinced she must have heard someone in our garage. Creepy, no?

So I’m trying to be more careful and checking it before bed, just in case, and when I saw the front plate of our parked car, it struck me how it’s pretty weird that we park vehicles inside our house. I know people who won’t permit the wearing of a single shoe in their home, the outside world being so icky to them — yet they allow, more or less indoors, a car, which has trundled over far more roadkill than the average pair of Nikes ever will. My wife and I are extra-big weirdos because we can actually get two cars in our garage, which puts us in a minority in our subdivision.

Am I smug about parking in our garage? Yes. My smugness largely goes dormant in the summer, though, waiting to emerge on frosty winter mornings, when two of our indoor cars do not require scraping. My poor old van stays on the street, so that someone else’s car will not get covered by the shade and pitch of our two street-side plum trees.

Column: My love affair with an aging minivan

I haven’t researched beyond gawking on walks around my neighborhood, but I’m willing to guess that most people under the age of 65, maybe 70 in health-forward Bend, use their garages for anything BUT housing their cars.

On my block, there are several long-term rentals near our home, which means most houses have between three and five cars, none of which have seen the inside of a garage in forever.

The plum, apple and maple trees on our street have matured since our neighborhood were thrown up in the mid-’00s, just prior to the housing crash. My wife and I often say how pretty the well-kempt yards would look if they were not obscured by 137.5 cars parked on every square inch of asphalt and concrete.

Based on my scientific investigation, a.k.a. neighborly nosiness, I have come up with three reasons why many people can’t get one or two vehicles in what’s still quaintly referred to as a two-car garage. Those reasons are:

1. Junk, sometimes known as sporting goods and lifestyle toys. But from a distance, it mostly looks like junk piles. Doubt or dislike my hypothesis all you want, but I was raised by a hoarder. I know junk piles when I see them.

2. It’s a second living room, replete with couches and TV.

3. Welding and woodworking equipment. Over the years, no matter who has come and gone, I have consistently had neighbors whose arc welding has nearly blinded me, real and just punishment for my prying eyes. It’s like looking directly at an eclipse, repeatedly. Seriously, what are you all welding?

I get needing somewhere to work on projects, but I’m most sympathetic to the second living room. There’s just something about a comfy couch, friends and inebriation that go well with a large door to the outside. I’m more or less a teetotaler these days, but I am sympathetic to those who partake. Modern life is stressful. The garage isn’t. I’m pretty sure their strong resemblance to garage doors are why those big rolling doors are so popular at breweries and taprooms.

On the other hand, I’m dead against junk. Call me un-American or Marie Kondo, but I don’t understand our culture’s acquisitiveness or keeping large numbers of things you don’t use. I know there are all kinds of situations that cause the tide of stuff in garages to ebb and flow. We have two kids temporarily heading abroad, and the contents of their apartments are briefly moving into half our garage, not for the first time. So I’m not unsympathetic to these rhythms of life that result in junk accumulation, nor do I have the wherewithal to preach the gospel of clean garages.

I’d probably be less smug if someone invited me to hang out in their tastefully appointed garage sometime. Even though I don’t really like alcohol, and I don’t smoke pot anymore, it looks fun. I can park on the street and be the designated driver. I promise I won’t judge your junk pile, although I may ask about any welding projects I witness.

Column: An indoor skatepark effort ramps up in Bend

Hey, speaking of junk, this column won second place in the Oregon Newspaper Publishers Association’s annual journalism contest, sparking an 11% reduction in my impostor syndrome for a few minutes. Congratulations to my journalism betters Noemi Arrellano-Summer, Suzanne Roig, Janay Wright, Joe Kline, Andy Tullis, Anna Kaminski and Dean Guernsey on their prizes.

And then there’s our deserving peers who didn’t get a prize for their work this time but are just as committed to local journalism.

We couldn’t do it without our editors, Jody Lawrence-Turner, Julie Johnson, Tim Trainor and Tim Doran, so a bunch of kudos to them, too.

You’re all first-place winners in my book.