The morning before we left Buffalo, we went out to breakfast. Not so much as it was a fun family thing to do, but more so that every dish, fork, cup and other cooking utensil we owned was packed into boxes, and Leah was the only one of us who actually knew where they were. So, off to Bagel Jay’s we drove.
I stayed in the car with the boys while Leah went in to get breakfast. As we sat and said silly things, as boys of all ages tend to do when in groups, the Gods deemed us worthy, and sent a fire truck driving by, sirens screaming and lights flashing. As we watched in rapt attention, a second truck drove past, then a third. This was big. Huge. We never get to see this many fire trucks unless a building on our street is on fire.
Of course, the building across from the Bagel Jays parking lot was, in fact, aflame. The trucks pulled up. The firefighters did what fire fighters do. The boys took in every last second of the action. We saw windows being smashed. We saw ladders raised to the roof. We watched people hanging out of windows with no shirts on, watching the events unfold. There were no flames, but lots and lots of smoke.
At one point, Aidan made a connection in his little head, yelling, “Gramma have fire, too!”
“Yes,” I said, “but Gramma’s fire is built by Grampa Art, and it is safe. Fires that aren’t built are usually not safe.”
Aidan, while staring at me and watching my mouth move and hearing sounds come out of it, had taken an entirely different tact in his little head.
Looking back out our car window at the smoke billowing from the building, he asked quite innocently, “They cookin’ chickens in there?”
