These honking trucks are the bane of my existence. Once when I lived alone in a too big house in Wichita I lived with a couple of crickets. It was a nightly battle of hunting them out as sleep was interrupted by their nonstop chirps (made complicated by the thought that crickets were good luck—how could I kill them? I brushed them outside with a broom). I kept imaging my nightly life as some kind of children’s book titled Katie and the Crickets. It’s about a lonely girl in a too big house striking out on the prairie, taking care of herself.
These trucks are far less charming. And all I can do is plead by the window “No, please, stop honking . . what will come of all this honking, really?”
