“So I hear someone tried to blow up the restaurant next to your office.”
For the record, my mother lives in Napa, not Bosnia.
“Why blow up a Thai restaurant? I mean, there’s two Italian places on every block. Why not take one of those out?”
“Actually, the news story had it wrong. It was closer to the health club.”
“Oh, that makes more sense.”
“So were you evacuated?”
“No, they locked us down. We spent three hours huddling against the far wall.”
“Yeah. I was just about to go out for coffee, too.”
“I poked my head out and asked a cop if he would bring me some coffee from Gilwoods down the street. He was kind of gruff about it.”
“No sense of humor.”
“None. Great boots though. Do you think you have to be a motorcycle cop to get those boots or can you just buy them?”
“So was it real?”
“Was what real?”
“Oh yes, it was real. They ended up detonating it in the middle of the street under a mess of sandbags. Blew sandbag smithereens everywhere.”
“Yeah, sand all over everybody’s cars.”
“So did you go back to work or go home?”
“I walked down the street and got my coffee.”
Dad chimes in. “That Thai restaurant is pretty good though.”
“Yeah, we should go sometime. Next you come town.”
Epilogue: As I was discussing the day's event with my mom, in which the seemingly innocuous little agricultural community of Napa yet again makes the news, I was struck by my mother's light and funny story-telling abilities and found myself pitying the fact that she did not keep a blog.
But I do...