BURGLARY
When I was around ten years old, our house got burglarized. My mother and sister were out somewhere, but my father, my brother, and I came home from Sears in time to hear that someone was in the house, more specifically, downstairs in the basement. We had just pulled in the driveway when my father noticed all the lights on inside the house. A licensed carrier, he immediately went for the pistol in his ankle holster. He told my brother and I to stay put inside the car. Then he cautiously entered the house.
Of course, we didn’t listen to my father’s instructions and followed along soon after. The kitchen was trashed. And there was commotion heard from down in the basement. When I went downstairs—I’m not sure what my brother was doing at this point, perhaps whimpering in the corner somewhere—my father and the burglar were nowhere in sight.
Our was stuff strewn everywhere. I immediately rushed to the other part of the basement where the bulked was and saw that it was open, the backyard censor light illuminating the area outside. And so, I was able to catch a glimpse of my father running through the snow, away from the house. The rest of the story goes that he chased the burglar a ways up the street before eventually losing sight of him. However, if you ask my father in the present day if this indeed happened, he’ll say that it never did, and that you don’t know what you’re talking about.
Did my father really chase a burglar almost a quarter mile up the road with a firearm in his hand? I remember that night and I remember it well. Perhaps Dateline might properly investigate the events of that evening so we can know the real facts of this mysterious cold case.
LEAF BLOWER
As I listen to the sweet symphony of my neighbor leaf-blowing a clean driveway in the rain, I can’t help but recall the time I went to look at a rental house and, after stepping out of my car, was instantly met by a guy no less than 100-years-old wielding a leaf blower on full throttle, his head down, quickly coming within inches of my face as I clumsily slammed the car door shut in shock. “What the hell!” I yelled as he resumed his activities by blowing dirt and debris up around my car in a complete state of obliviousness. My ears ringing, and still reeling from the trauma, I wobbled up to the rental house and peeped inside, waited a few minutes on the porch, and then went back to my car and drove off.
When I was around ten years old, our house got burglarized. My mother and sister were out somewhere, but my father, my brother, and I came home from Sears in time to hear that someone was in the house, more specifically, downstairs in the basement. We had just pulled in the driveway when my father noticed all the lights on inside the house. A licensed carrier, he immediately went for the pistol in his ankle holster. He told my brother and I to stay put inside the car. Then he cautiously entered the house.
Of course, we didn’t listen to my father’s instructions and followed along soon after. The kitchen was trashed. And there was commotion heard from down in the basement. When I went downstairs—I’m not sure what my brother was doing at this point, perhaps whimpering in the corner somewhere—my father and the burglar were nowhere in sight.
Our was stuff strewn everywhere. I immediately rushed to the other part of the basement where the bulked was and saw that it was open, the backyard censor light illuminating the area outside. And so, I was able to catch a glimpse of my father running through the snow, away from the house. The rest of the story goes that he chased the burglar a ways up the street before eventually losing sight of him. However, if you ask my father in the present day if this indeed happened, he’ll say that it never did, and that you don’t know what you’re talking about.
Did my father really chase a burglar almost a quarter mile up the road with a firearm in his hand? I remember that night and I remember it well. Perhaps Dateline might properly investigate the events of that evening so we can know the real facts of this mysterious cold case.
LEAF BLOWER
As I listen to the sweet symphony of my neighbor leaf-blowing a clean driveway in the rain, I can’t help but recall the time I went to look at a rental house and, after stepping out of my car, was instantly met by a guy no less than 100-years-old wielding a leaf blower on full throttle, his head down, quickly coming within inches of my face as I clumsily slammed the car door shut in shock. “What the hell!” I yelled as he resumed his activities by blowing dirt and debris up around my car in a complete state of obliviousness. My ears ringing, and still reeling from the trauma, I wobbled up to the rental house and peeped inside, waited a few minutes on the porch, and then went back to my car and drove off.
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