My Father Tossed a Blue Savings Passbook into the Mud at Cedar Ridge
A loud metallic grinding noise erupted from under the hood, loud enough to echo off the brick storefronts.
Thick gray smoke poured out of the front grille, completely blocking my view of the street.
I wrestled the heavy steering wheel to the right and coasted into the parking lot of an auto repair shop just as the engine died completely.
A mechanic in dark blue coveralls walked out of the open garage bays.
He wiped his hands on a grease-stained rag and looked at the smoking car.
“Pop the hood,” he said.
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