Driving past houses that are not kept up.

Homes that are not maintained. Inside is worse than outside.

This one has a hungry but happy family in it.

There was a shooting outside that one.  Bullets barged in.

Three holes in two walls.

That next one has blankets for curtains.

In the front door

Through the barren living room into the closed-in back porch

And down the stairs

In the built-on, makeshift room lies a man who is living his last few days.  Finally living. While dying.

Coming up next, a house where a man was born, grew up, married, raised children, welcomed grandchildren, nursed his dying wife, morned, and now sits.

Watching Storage Wars.

Waiting for his grand children to visit.

Every house has a story.  Every home has secrets.

Even at 65 mph, I can see inside those homes and imagine that I know those lives.

Sure beats local radio.