When I came home this evening, I was greeted by several helicopters overhead. At first, I thought, Fuck, they've finally come for me, but then I got real. They were clearly here for my neighbors. Alas, I was wrong: The helicopters were hovering to witness a five-alarm fire consuming one of JP's churches. I've passed that church about a gazillion times and never thought about it, but I'm sad to see it go. Apparently, it dates back to 1859, which isn't that old for these parts, but more than old enough to be a fixture on Centre Street and more than old enough for me to love it for its place in history.
(On a side note, you know it's fucking cold when the water to fight the fire is freezing on the ground. Dude, when did I move to the Arctic tundra?)
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