Invaders of the North
It was the summer of 1973. There was a ruckus at the front door
and my mother made some excited squeals looking outside. I
pushed my way out the door and saw a truck with livestock walls
filled to the brim and overflowing with clothes, boxes,
furniture.
The livestock walls were made of worn wood, tilting out from the
rusted bed of the truck as if about to burst like a cartoon
scene all over the quiet street on which we lived.
And then like a clown car people started raining from this
truck, from on top of the pile, from under the pile, from the
cab of the truck. It was like a scene from the