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Whilst quietly editing a journal paper by the picture window of Kopi my attention was involuntarily directed outdoors as about a mile-long parade of firefighting equipment suddenly blared its way up North Walnut. Fire trucks from Champaign, Urbana, Tolono, Pesotum, and obscure districts from around the county. A few cool antique ones. Giant hazmat response trailers. Some of these behemoths had slowly-rotating tri-lobal pinwheels with hemispherical luminaries, both functional and retro stylish.
I almost always hate parades. For some reason, I associate them with that really smelly, impacted mucus jelly that issues forth at the end of a long sinus infection (completely true). But fire engine parades during Fire Prevention Week are the exception. Who among us doesn't love fire engines? All that racket on this crisp, sunny morning carried me back to an early October day when I was about 4.5, tearfully threatening my Dad that if he did not let me ride on the fire engine I would not share my million dollars with him whenever I got it. The good news: I got to ride the fire engine. The bad news: I haven't shared my million dollars with Bunka yet.
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