Sort of Like Mayberry

In this sleepy lakeside town where I’ve got my writing retreat, the firehouse blares a whistle every noon. It’s lovely. It’s a sound of my youth. Yesterday, it didn’t go off. I call my grandma every day, if for no other reason than to tell her the color of the lake, and last night, we speculated that the firehouse didn’t blare the whistle because they forgot to spring ahead, and then got too embarrassed to correct themselves. Last night, as I was getting ready for bed, that siren went off at exactly midnight. And from across the lake, I swear I could almost hear somebody shouting, “Dang it, Eddie! You’re fired!”

(Originally posted March 14, 2016)

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