trilobight
24350_386726278705_504948705_3759416_2882256_n
I had this Monday off. A friend from work, who drives by my building each morning on his way there, noticed a huge plume of smoke emanating from my vicinity one morning at around five am. I was awakened shortly thereafter, noticing that it was work calling me and groggily assuming that I was to be called in at the last second as they are wont to do.
This was not the case on this particular April morning.
My boss, his machine-gun southeastern Massachusetts accent cascading like an avalanche of quail shot against my recently somnolent ear, informed me, "JakeIthinkyabuildin'sonfyuh (I say there Jacob, it has come to my attention that your domicile is quite likely ablaze, now, as we speak!"), in an unsettlingly deadpan, disinterested way.
Thankfully it was not actually my building, but an un-renovated wing of the old Wamsutta complex, a good stone's throw or two from the part in which my family and I dwell. It was quite a sight to see a fireman balanced on the terminus of a ladder, a mighty jet of water issuing forth from his hose with a pleasing "whoosh", audible even across distance and through walls of brick and insulation, all the while silhouetted against the brilliance of a cadmium orange dawn over the confluence of the Acushnet River and New Bedford Harbour, where the grimy and long dormant smokestacks of New Bedford city look across at the elegant spires of Farihaven village.
At any rate, my most profound thanks to that anonymous fire fighter. Were it not for his sleepless efforts, I fear that I might be a few shades more well-done today as I type this.
24350_386726278705_504948705_3759416_2882256_n
I had this Monday off. A friend from work, who drives by my building each morning on his way there, noticed a huge plume of smoke emanating from my vicinity one morning at around five am. I was awakened shortly thereafter, noticing that it was work calling me and groggily assuming that I was to be called in at the last second as they are wont to do.
This was not the case on this particular April morning.
My boss, his machine-gun southeastern Massachusetts accent cascading like an avalanche of quail shot against my recently somnolent ear, informed me, "JakeIthinkyabuildin'sonfyuh (I say there Jacob, it has come to my attention that your domicile is quite likely ablaze, now, as we speak!"), in an unsettlingly deadpan, disinterested way.
Thankfully it was not actually my building, but an un-renovated wing of the old Wamsutta complex, a good stone's throw or two from the part in which my family and I dwell. It was quite a sight to see a fireman balanced on the terminus of a ladder, a mighty jet of water issuing forth from his hose with a pleasing "whoosh", audible even across distance and through walls of brick and insulation, all the while silhouetted against the brilliance of a cadmium orange dawn over the confluence of the Acushnet River and New Bedford Harbour, where the grimy and long dormant smokestacks of New Bedford city look across at the elegant spires of Farihaven village.
At any rate, my most profound thanks to that anonymous fire fighter. Were it not for his sleepless efforts, I fear that I might be a few shades more well-done today as I type this.