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