It Seems So Quaint Now

But I remember waiting patiently for the Bookmobile to come . . . Of course, the life of Bookmobiles is coming to an end:

The bus is now a ragged shadow of itself, with malfunctioning heaters, a rheumatic suspension, and an engine that huffs gray smoke whenever it is coaxed to speeds over 40 miles per hour. And when Caravaggio recently eased the shuddering and wheezing bus into one of her old stops, near a residential street overlooking a stretch of blue water, something all but inevitable happened.

No one came.