Car Go Poof
So, for a day, a Pontiac something or other was parked out front. Not in the best of shape, Mike and I suspected that it was left there after a fender-bender took place on Thursday (we heard it but didn't see it). Before heading out to Springfield, we had a good chuckle over the 70s penis car out front, and I took the following shots while holding Nate in one arm.
The interior looked stripped, so I just assumed it had been dumped by car thieves and that it would sit there for a week or so before streets and san grew wise. I loved that two parking tickets were sitting on the passenger seat, placed there by the cop who periodically enforces our inexplicable permit parking only status, especially when we're entertaining and forget to give our friends passes.
So, we drove off to Springfield and enjoyed a lovely day of Lincoln sites, because Mike and I are history geeks. After a long day we returned at 9 p.m. and turned in shortly thereafter.
At 5:30, Mike shook me awake and asked, "Are there firetrucks outside?" Sure looked like it. I could see the shimmering reds, yellows, and blues projected against our drapes. I got up and looked out the window, and sure enough I saw a fire engine and a squad car outside, lights a'flashin'.
I couldn't see anything. It didn't look like any of our neighbors' homes were aflame, and since the nice firemen weren't standing at the foot of our bed, I assumed we were doing all right in that regard. The truth is that fire engines aren't an uncommon sight in our neighborhood. They tend to drive the wrong way down our one-way street every now and again on their way to the station. I'm not sure where the station is, but I know it's nearby. I shrugged my shoulders, told Mike I didn't see anything, and we both went back to sleep.
This morning, Mike woke me up and said, "That 70s car that was parked outside yesterday? It caught on fire!"
Sure enough:
No idea what that was all about. I doubt it was a message from the mob or a disgruntled reader since it took place when I was unconscious and thus impervious to intimidation (I'm joking, of course). Most likely someone came back and wanted to destroy any potential evidence.
I like Mike's view of it as proof that we picked the right neighborhood. The neighbors watch out for each other, the cops and fire department came right away, and, best of all, they towed the car this morning. The nice lady next door and I had to shovel up all the shattered windshield glass and other remains, but whatever. The curb needed to be cleared anyway. I was especially amazed by a small pile of melted aluminum. Shiny shiny.
Funnily enough, I'm a bit blasé about explosions/car immolations. This is my fourth in 19 years of living in the city proper. Remind me to tell you about the Hell's Henchmen explosion.
The interior looked stripped, so I just assumed it had been dumped by car thieves and that it would sit there for a week or so before streets and san grew wise. I loved that two parking tickets were sitting on the passenger seat, placed there by the cop who periodically enforces our inexplicable permit parking only status, especially when we're entertaining and forget to give our friends passes.
So, we drove off to Springfield and enjoyed a lovely day of Lincoln sites, because Mike and I are history geeks. After a long day we returned at 9 p.m. and turned in shortly thereafter.
At 5:30, Mike shook me awake and asked, "Are there firetrucks outside?" Sure looked like it. I could see the shimmering reds, yellows, and blues projected against our drapes. I got up and looked out the window, and sure enough I saw a fire engine and a squad car outside, lights a'flashin'.
I couldn't see anything. It didn't look like any of our neighbors' homes were aflame, and since the nice firemen weren't standing at the foot of our bed, I assumed we were doing all right in that regard. The truth is that fire engines aren't an uncommon sight in our neighborhood. They tend to drive the wrong way down our one-way street every now and again on their way to the station. I'm not sure where the station is, but I know it's nearby. I shrugged my shoulders, told Mike I didn't see anything, and we both went back to sleep.
This morning, Mike woke me up and said, "That 70s car that was parked outside yesterday? It caught on fire!"
Sure enough:
No idea what that was all about. I doubt it was a message from the mob or a disgruntled reader since it took place when I was unconscious and thus impervious to intimidation (I'm joking, of course). Most likely someone came back and wanted to destroy any potential evidence.
I like Mike's view of it as proof that we picked the right neighborhood. The neighbors watch out for each other, the cops and fire department came right away, and, best of all, they towed the car this morning. The nice lady next door and I had to shovel up all the shattered windshield glass and other remains, but whatever. The curb needed to be cleared anyway. I was especially amazed by a small pile of melted aluminum. Shiny shiny.
Funnily enough, I'm a bit blasé about explosions/car immolations. This is my fourth in 19 years of living in the city proper. Remind me to tell you about the Hell's Henchmen explosion.