My street and my dad (it's all about me)

This is a shot of my street in a bit of a welcome (by me) drizzle. The approaching car is my wonderful father coming in my car to put oil in his car so I can drive it. We have traded cars, and I have the far better end of the deal as his is a '95 Jaguar the driving of which is similar to practicing Tai Chi. It's amazingly graceful. My father has had a Jaguar since I was a small child, they are part of our family fokelore; the time one caught on fire near the Goodwill and my mother begged him to donate it; the one I blew up in Enumclaw late at night driving without oil; the one that never started at all but we went out and read books in it because it was so beautiful to lounge in; the list goes on...But this one just needed a bit of oil and my 85 year old father came to my rescue. Yet again. As he always has. To say he is my hero falls quite short of the mark.

As I was awaiting his oily offering, I began to think of my neighbors. On the surface this is a typical street, nothing special at all, not overly well paved, no streetlights, plenty of potholes providing a slalom experience. Not like streets in big cities or crisis zones such as in Syria with extremes of joy or fear transporting them away from 'typical'. But then I began to reflect on the tiny portions of my neighbors' stories that I am aware of. Illness, divorce, the demands from special needs, a wedding and a funeral. It's all here just not in the news. My street is not so plain. It has a depth to its living that unfolds itself to you if you are quiet, outside, waiting for oil.