The white limousine was out of place on Magill Road. Except for prom nights and funerals, this wasn’t a limousine kind of street. It was suburban, on the fringe of the island of Swarthmore, in the sea of working-class Delaware County, the armpit of America, as my father called it. Looming over the modest three-bedroom Cape Cod house was the glowing white Mobil sign, the steady hum of traffic, motorcycle engines roaring, music pulsing from open windows as cars idled at red lights.
Read more at the source: Lessons from My Father – The New Yorker