Last Thursday the boys and I went to Napa to pick up the postcards for our book launches. You’ve seen them—the gorgeous cover with the witty subtitle. The postcards are fab (you might see them at a bookstore near you! If you are near Diesel in Oakland, Book Passage in Corte Madera or Bookmine in Napa.)
“You know,” my friend Teri said. (Teri is our PR magician. She also has twins. And she wrote this killer essay for the anthology that is featured in the North Bay Bohemian this week.) “Down the block and across the street is a firefighters museum.”
This is the part where I talk about how great this firefighters museum is—the old fire trucks they had, all from the Napa fleet. How there are two trucks that kids can climb on. That they have the old fashioned bell on a rope.
Then this should be the paragraph where I talk about the nice curator who let us use the bathroom (or maybe that paragraph should be cut) and gave the boys coloring sheets of fire trucks.
The final paragraph might wax nostalgic about the smell of the museum, the yellowed papers that were type-written. The old-fashioned fire extinguishers. The way the notices reminded you of a time when fires ate entire towns, when water was not so easily transported.
Or maybe I end with the boys in the car on the drive home, Wagner carefully holding his coloring sheet with his thumb and forefinger, and with his other hand, tracing the outline of the fire chief’s car before the rumble of the engine coaxes him to sleep.