This is the fire truck that my friend and I would take turns on riding down the hill in front of our houses. We grew up with one house in between us, and both gained second families as we did so. She remembers we put a pillow on it as we rode, which does make sense, because even then the ratio of fire truck bed to the sitting place on our bodies was not 1:1! Was visiting with her and her family at her parents yesterday (same house), and her Dad had of course saved the truck, with a new paint job. Joy filled as was able to hug those so dear to me...this past 15 months had made such hugging absent.
(Oh gosh, yes, our fire truck downhills were likely dangerous...less cars around, but it was a hill, with our balance the steering and our legs the brakes. On the wagon, we both could fit. Somewhere up the trunk of another neighbor's tree is the mark of one our crashes in that wagon. The beauty of a childhood that allowed freedom and adventure. Her Dad would whistle (loud :)) and we could hear from all around the neighborhood -- that whistle signaled it was was time to come home).
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