George nodded. It seemed he too could smell the pickles.
"Well, when old man Pepperson died, all his history died with him. His kids, his wife, even," he paused, "Mildred, God rest her soul." Henry looked over at George looking to see if anything would change his own facial expression. None did.
Timothy was a little confused.Wasn't Mildred, God rest her soul, George's wife?"
"Well, now Timothy, sit back. This might take some time to sort all out for you."
Now George started talking in a sing song sort of way. Drawing all who were listening back to an earlier time.
The Pickle Factory across the street appeared, the dusty roads, the old flag looked new on the Town Hall. The Five and Ten boosted shining new silver screen doors, and in the window a red rider wagon, bright with new paint. On the sidewalk, pumpkins and cornstalks mingled with dried leaves. The diner/cafes round sign blinked on and off in the early evening sun. There were a crowd of kids hanging around the door of the Pickle Factory. Oh, maybe a dozen or so, girls, boys, dressed in old dusty clothes, cut of jeans and yellow white tee shirts. Old sneakers, piggy tails. Much friendly shoving and pushing. One of the girls had a strap of books. She was suppose to return them to the library, but couldn't resist the daily rite of kids waiting for their dads, uncles, brothers. As soon as the Five o'clock whistle blew, the big heavy wooden double doors opened and out came the humanity that lived out their lives inside the Factory. Father's joined sons with a hug around the neck, a gentle punch, a hug for a daughter.
"Mom made cookies."
"We got to pick up the cleaning, mom said."
"I have to go drop these books off."
"Can we get a game up Dad?"
That last one drew a cheer from the crowd, with echoes of yeah, and can we, and it's not dinner time yet.
A grumbling came from the adults in the group. It had been a long day. But after much haggling, the kids talked the men into a pick up game which set up immediately in the center of the street. Gloves were retrieved from park benches, under man covers. Basses suddenly appeared from the steps beneath the factory stairs. This was a daily ritual.
Sam played catcher. He had to. He was the only one who could afford the glove. George played pitcher. He was good. Fred always played backfield because he was always the first one to be called home for dinner. Little Mildred liked to be close to George so she played shortstop. George's father, George Sr., he played umpire. And he was good too. If his call went your way.There were others too.
And then there was Maxwell. He was Jr. They all called him that. He always wore a suit, although it often got thrown aside when reaching for a grounder. He was set apart a little. It wasn't that he wasn't friends with all the kids, even the girls, but he seemed a bit more prim. Proper. That's probably just because his dad owned the factory. Mildred was like that too. She was tiny for her eight years. Wore piggy tails, and her mother always dressed her is yellow and lace, said it brought out the yellow in her eyes. How she got those eyes, nobody knew. Mrs. Pepperson was pinchish, and had beady brown eyes with mousy hair to match. Mr. Pepperson was small too, and behind his by focals, he had teeny black eyes. The mailman, the kids joked. Although, the mailman was black and had the biggest most beautiful chocolate eyes you could ever wish to look into.
On this day, the game started up as usual, dusty and sweaty, fathers against sons and friends against brothers. It was loud.
"Keep that clamour down!!" Came from across the street at the Five and Ten. It was old Mrs. Fish. And a fitting name for her too. She looked like a fish. And when she was selling the fish from the market, she even smelled like a fish. She was always yelling for the kids, (and their fathers) for being to loud.
Thursday, October 30, 2014
It was a gathering of unusual people who were now seated at the table. Amy had pulled up a chair with a look of bewilderment, as though about to find out something really meaningful. George had come back through the doors with a pan of hot sticky buns, told Amy to fill up every one's cup and took her seat as she got up to pour the coffee. She quickly did the chore, pulled up another chair, put the pot on the neighboring table and sat expectantly again.
Timothy was sure he was about to hear some deep dark secret about this town, or at least the diner or cafe, whichever it was.
They sat there sort of fidgeting and looking at one another waiting for someone to speak. Timothy thought it would be Henry, since he was the one who had offered. All eyes now settled on him.
A clatter from the kitchen let Timothy know they were not alone. Looking up suddenly, surprised, thinking those around the table were the only ones in the building.
"That's Fred." George offered. "He doesn't come out. He's my brother. Keeps to himself. He don't scare anyone anymore, just washes up the dishes and pots and pans and cleans up the place at night."
Timothy nodded, wondered about 'doesn't scare anyone anymore' meant.
A gnarly clearing of throat and Henry started to speak.
"Now then youngster, you think you might want to settle here in town. Do the reporting? Well, you might want to know all the facts first. It's not just any town you know. We have lots of history. It's not the kind of place just anyone would want to settle. We've had our share of bad times, and of course good times. But it's a tight family that lives here."
Timothy wasn't sure if Henry meant 'here' as in the diner or 'here' as in the town. But he listened.
"Oh yes," Mrs. Grimsley put in just then, "you should be here for Christmas. The big town tree in the old lot across the street, the big Thanksgiving Parade. Oh, and in just a few days, Halloween, with all the little children running through the streets in their witches and bum costumes.Too fine a time." She smiled.
" eh-hem," Henry put in, "as I was saying, " there's been some not too good times. Some days seem to drag on by like nothing in the world is going on, and here, it usually doesn't."
There was an almost uncomfortable silence, as if he were about to disclose that deep secret that seemed to be just around the corner. Timothy checked himself. What was he thinking? These were some very nice people, all be it a little eccentric, they were just expounding on their town history of course.
"There was that one time, " Henry said.
Uh oh, here it comes, the skeleton in the closet.
Henry slowly and hand shaking from age, took a sip of his black coffee.
"It was just about when the pickling factory closed up. It was a big uproar. The old man wouldn't sell the lot, or the building. No chance for anything to come in a build maybe a nice grocery, or a new hardware store. Nope, he put it ironclad in his will that the factory would cease to exist, and it was to be destroyed. All to make a lot for the kids. You know, a ball park, a place they could all get together, but right here in the center of town so the grown uppers could keep an eye on them." He put down his cup. "That factory provided 83 people with jobs. When it was shut down, some of them left town. But then, maybe about 23 families or so stayed. They're still here. They stuck it out, some got jobs on the farm over the hill. Some of the women took to laundering, working at the five and dime, sewing, you, know, anything to bring in enough to feed the kids, One time, the women all got together and made pies and cakes and cookies and went and had a bake sale in the next town. They made a boatload of money. You might not think a bake sale is very much, but I'll tell you, for the people who live here don't require much. Just enough to live on, food on the table, a little for fixing up, but then again, we all help one another fixing up."
Timothy wondered where this was going. A little odd to say the least.
"Did anyone ever say why the Pickling man didn't want to keep up his business?" He ventured a question.
"Pepperson". Henry said. "Maxwell Pepperson. He was the pickling king. The pickling factory was called Pepperson Pickles. He thought it was pretty fun that his name was Pepperson and he pickled pickles, not peppers." Henry smiled to reveal some very rotten teeth and brown spaces.
Continuing, he said, " Well now, it is a question why he never did want that building to keep up. It was might nice. Three floors, and a fire escape right there on the front of it." he turned and pointed to the imaginary building across the street in the empty lot.. He was quiet for a moment. Then, "It was a good business. They use to truck those pickles all over the county. Come August and September it was a beehive of activity. You could smell them pickles all over town, the briny smell would be great when they started, but by the end, it was sickening. That is untill they did the sweet pickles. They were pure sugar."
He took a breath in as if he could smell them right now.
Timothy automatically took a breath in and thought he detected a smell of pickle. He shook his head slightly and dismissed it.
Tuesday, October 28, 2014
Chapter Two
Mrs. Girmsley, a little plump in her green suit, passed Timothy and went to the middle of the diner and sat at a table directly in the middle of the room. She sat facing neither the door nor the kitchen. She had a view of all that went on in here. She primped Priscella and sat her on the seat next to her, fluffing a pillow that was hidden on the seat. Timothy noticed for the first time, that Edith, Mrs. Grimsley, was wearing tight fitting gloves, which she now struggled to remove one finger at a time. With a silent huff, she set the gloves carefully down on the table next to her green purse.
"Amy, I will now have my coffee with cream, 2 eggs poached and a slice of the freshest bread with some of my apple butter spread over it.". She didn't look Amy's way, so didn't notice the eye rolling motion Amy made to Timothy.
"Oh Mrs. Grimsley, we were just discussing the name of the diner and how Mildred always called it the Cafe." She had moved over and poured a fresh steaming cup of coffee.
"Cafe it should have always been." She harrumphed. Picking up a spoon, inspecting it she pointed in the general direction of the kitchen. "Too many generations involved, that's what I say."
Amy looked again at Timothy over Mrs. Grimsley's head and shrugged.
"Well, I'll go tell George to poach your eggs." She moved her way back behind the doors with the two round windows.
"May I ask you a question?" Timothy swiveled again in his seat.
"You may ask anything you like, it doesn't mean I will answer it to your liking."
"Okay. I just wondered what you meant by too many generations?"
"Just what I said, too many involved in this place. One comes, stays, then another comes, stays, and they never really leave. Oh, except for Mildred, God rest her soul, she passed on a few years back, I cannot recall exactly how many years. But the others? No one ever wants to leave. They just keep staying on."
"You mean there is more then one owner?"
"Young man, that is not what I said. "She pursed her lipsticked red lips." I said, they come, they just don't leave. See Henry over there? He's been here since... since.. well I don't remember since when, but longer even then I have been here."
"You come every day?"
"I am here. Have my breakfast, and then move on to the library to volunteer. We don't use any new systems. Just the old card catalog. My job is to make sure every care is always in the correct spot. You know, when those kids come in looking for books for classes, or something to read, they just don't have the what with all to put those cards back in their proper places. So that is what I do." She finished. "And you? What are you doing?"
Timothy straightened his back a little. He felt as though he were being questioned by a school teacher. Maybe she was one before she volunteered at the library.
" I am here to interview for old Sam;s job at the paper." He smiled easily, using the name Amy had referred to Sam.
Mrs. Grimsley did not seem amused. "That would be MR. Sam Johnson. Newspaper reporter extraordinaire. He has been doing that job for over 70 years. How long have you been reporting?"
She looked directly into his very blue eyes.
"Well, I graduated and did the backpacking around Europe, then landed a job in a big city, and being from a small town, didn't like it. I want to move to a small town. You know, report on the football games, who gets married, who dies."
"Now why would you want to do a boring job like that?"
"Oh, I kind of have this idea that I can take any news and make it important. Because it is, important I mean, to someone, or someones." He offered that easy smile again. She looked at him with an odd expression.
"Are you one of the ones who will stay?" she asked simply.
Taking no meaning from it, Timothy answered, "Yeah, maybe. Yeah. I might stay."
Breakfasts having been served, coffee cups refilled, including Timothy who had actually drank the mucky stuff he claimed to hate, Henry, from behind the paper, growled a bit, noisily put the paper on the table and stood. A pair of well worn jeans hung loosely but snugged with a belt helped keep them up.
" Ya want the story now young man?" He shuffled his slippered feet over to the swivel seat next to Timothy. "But you're gonna have to take a seat at the table. That durn seat ain't so good for my back."
Without speaking, Timothy grabbed his cup, leaving the saucer, and waited for Henry to take a seat and the followed suit. Mrs. Grimsley, also having finished her meal, stood, came to the table and seated Priscilla first on the pillow she had dragged over and then seated herself as if she had been asked.
Mrs. Girmsley, a little plump in her green suit, passed Timothy and went to the middle of the diner and sat at a table directly in the middle of the room. She sat facing neither the door nor the kitchen. She had a view of all that went on in here. She primped Priscella and sat her on the seat next to her, fluffing a pillow that was hidden on the seat. Timothy noticed for the first time, that Edith, Mrs. Grimsley, was wearing tight fitting gloves, which she now struggled to remove one finger at a time. With a silent huff, she set the gloves carefully down on the table next to her green purse.
"Amy, I will now have my coffee with cream, 2 eggs poached and a slice of the freshest bread with some of my apple butter spread over it.". She didn't look Amy's way, so didn't notice the eye rolling motion Amy made to Timothy.
"Oh Mrs. Grimsley, we were just discussing the name of the diner and how Mildred always called it the Cafe." She had moved over and poured a fresh steaming cup of coffee.
"Cafe it should have always been." She harrumphed. Picking up a spoon, inspecting it she pointed in the general direction of the kitchen. "Too many generations involved, that's what I say."
Amy looked again at Timothy over Mrs. Grimsley's head and shrugged.
"Well, I'll go tell George to poach your eggs." She moved her way back behind the doors with the two round windows.
"May I ask you a question?" Timothy swiveled again in his seat.
"You may ask anything you like, it doesn't mean I will answer it to your liking."
"Okay. I just wondered what you meant by too many generations?"
"Just what I said, too many involved in this place. One comes, stays, then another comes, stays, and they never really leave. Oh, except for Mildred, God rest her soul, she passed on a few years back, I cannot recall exactly how many years. But the others? No one ever wants to leave. They just keep staying on."
"You mean there is more then one owner?"
"Young man, that is not what I said. "She pursed her lipsticked red lips." I said, they come, they just don't leave. See Henry over there? He's been here since... since.. well I don't remember since when, but longer even then I have been here."
"You come every day?"
"I am here. Have my breakfast, and then move on to the library to volunteer. We don't use any new systems. Just the old card catalog. My job is to make sure every care is always in the correct spot. You know, when those kids come in looking for books for classes, or something to read, they just don't have the what with all to put those cards back in their proper places. So that is what I do." She finished. "And you? What are you doing?"
Timothy straightened his back a little. He felt as though he were being questioned by a school teacher. Maybe she was one before she volunteered at the library.
" I am here to interview for old Sam;s job at the paper." He smiled easily, using the name Amy had referred to Sam.
Mrs. Grimsley did not seem amused. "That would be MR. Sam Johnson. Newspaper reporter extraordinaire. He has been doing that job for over 70 years. How long have you been reporting?"
She looked directly into his very blue eyes.
"Well, I graduated and did the backpacking around Europe, then landed a job in a big city, and being from a small town, didn't like it. I want to move to a small town. You know, report on the football games, who gets married, who dies."
"Now why would you want to do a boring job like that?"
"Oh, I kind of have this idea that I can take any news and make it important. Because it is, important I mean, to someone, or someones." He offered that easy smile again. She looked at him with an odd expression.
"Are you one of the ones who will stay?" she asked simply.
Taking no meaning from it, Timothy answered, "Yeah, maybe. Yeah. I might stay."
Breakfasts having been served, coffee cups refilled, including Timothy who had actually drank the mucky stuff he claimed to hate, Henry, from behind the paper, growled a bit, noisily put the paper on the table and stood. A pair of well worn jeans hung loosely but snugged with a belt helped keep them up.
" Ya want the story now young man?" He shuffled his slippered feet over to the swivel seat next to Timothy. "But you're gonna have to take a seat at the table. That durn seat ain't so good for my back."
Without speaking, Timothy grabbed his cup, leaving the saucer, and waited for Henry to take a seat and the followed suit. Mrs. Grimsley, also having finished her meal, stood, came to the table and seated Priscilla first on the pillow she had dragged over and then seated herself as if she had been asked.
Sunday, October 26, 2014
He could hear murmurings from the kitchen as he perused the breakfast listings. The usual fare, eggs, bacon, toast, pancakes, hash browns, in any combinations, juice, coffee, and in the fine print, "hot water for tea available". Closing the menu, he swiveled in his seat and noticed for the first time the newspaper in the corner. It was moving slightly as though the patron had been looking at this stranger. Looking further around the room, it occurred to him that there was something nondescript about the place. Nothing really to date it. No old calenders, no shiny new equipment, but neither was there a neglected look. On the contrary. It was a clean space, down to the black and white tiled floor. Although the white tiles were faded in to a brownish tint, the floor was immaculate.
As Amy came back through the door with the coffee pot still in her hand, "Are you ready to order? The bread just came out of the oven, It's nice and warm, and we have fresh apple butter. Mrs. Grimsley brought in a batch yesterday. She's still getting some apples off her tree." She smiled, put the pot down after noticing that the customer hadn't touched the cup. "Oh, is there something wrong with the coffee? Too strong? Too weak? People are funny about their morning joe you know.". She was pleasant enough.
" No, actually, I don't drink coffee." He managed to get in before she went on with some other detail about the coffee.
"Oh, I am so sorry. Tea?"
"No thanks, a nice tall glass of orange juice would be nice." He smiled at her as she wrote it down on her pad.
"How about that breakfast?"
"I 'll jut have the blue light special, eggs, scrambled, bacon, no ham, a some of that fresh bread, don't bother to toast it." He was just an ordinary guy ordering an ordinary breakfast.
After writing on the pad, Amy turned her head and instead of disappearing behind the doors, called into the back "blue plate 2 mashed and raw". Then turning back to the stranger seemed to settle in for a conversation. "You must be new here, passing through?"
The customer looked at her, not annoyed at all for the intrusion into himself. "Actually, I'm here for an interview with the newspaper, 'The Journal'. My name is Timothy." He didn't offer a last name, but offered his hand by way of introduction.
Amy took the hand, shook it slightly and then tinkled, "Oh, you must be the boy here to replace old Sam. He's got arthritis so bad he can't write anymore and he refuses to use any contraption other then a pencil." Timothy thought this rather odd, and asked, "Why doesn't he get someone to write or dictate for him?"
"Oh no, not old Sam. Besides, he's eighty two and said he needs to retire so he can see the world. I think he's going into the city for a weekend." She laughed easily again. "It's nice to meet you Timothy, Can I call you Tim? Thanks. I'll just go fill Henry's cup and be back with that orange juice." She slipped around the counter and went to refill Henry's coffee cup. He still hadn't seen the man's face, but knew it was old because of those gnarly hands.
When the breakfast arrived Timothy tucked in leaning on the counter with his elbows and taking a long swig of the fresh juice. After eating, he reached in his pocket and took a out a pad and pencil of his own. He thought he might get a head start and ask Amy about the town he was now considering as his new home.
Had she lived here all her life? Family? School? What did she know about the history of the place.
"Well, this diner, or this town?" She bypassed the personal questions.
"Sure, the diner." He wrote the word on the top of his pad. "What's it called? I didn't see a sign other then the one hanging outside that says "Diner".
"Yep, It is Diner. That's it. I don't think it ever had a different name." Amy pushed her eyebrows as if in deep thought. "No, I don't think it ever did have a real name."
A shuffle of paper sounded from the corner and as Timothy turned in his seat, a pair of watery blue eyes peered over the top of the pages. "Cafe'. He grunted and the paper went back up.
"Cafe? Cafe What?"
Again, the paper came down. "Cafe" from behind the paper, "Just that, Cafe. "
Timothy thought a moment and offered, "Well, when did it go from Cafe to Diner?"
"Always been."
Amy chimed in now, "Oh, that's right. Some people do call it the Cafe Diner, Or The Diner Cafe" She pushed her eyebrows together. " That's funny. I never really thought about it before." With a 'hm', she turned and disappeared into the kitchen.
A moment later she returned with an older gentleman, maybe in his sixties. He wore an old white apron hiding a pot belly. Gray hair, unkempt, flour on his hands and towel tucked into the apron led Timothy to believe this was the cook.
"This is George. He owns the place. Ask him about the diner." Amy backed away.
George stepped forward and offered his dusty hand, "George Andrews."
"Nice to meet you George. I'm Timothy. I here interviewing for the newspaper job." Taking George's firm grip he returned with a firm grip of his own. "I was just trying to find out a bit about this town."
Clearing his throat, seeming a friendly sort, George spoke, " Well now, I've been here all my life. I own this diner, or cafe if you must know." He smiled revealing an overly large whitish smile.
Timothy returned the smile and asked if it would be alright if he took some notes. George nodded and asked what it was he wanted to know.
"Well, for one thing, how come it's just called diner?"
"Well now, we never did come up with a proper name. My wife, God rest her soul, wanted it to be a cafe, you know, one of those fancy coffee places that serves tea and sandwiches and fancy soups. Me, I just wanted a good old fashion diner, you know, burgers, ice cream sundaes and such. So when Mildred, God rest her soul was working in between the kids, she called it cafe, and served coffee in tea cups and made them little cucumber sandwiches. But I still made meatloaf and mashed potatoes. So, depending on who you asked it was either Diner. Or Cafe. Simple as that."
Timothy smiled. Amy piped in,"Hey George, I never knew that. But come to think of it, when Mildred was here, she did always use that fancy teacup." She pointed to the back counter where a lone, bone china teacup and saucer sat on what appeared to be a fancy doily. The rest of the counter, as Timothy looked at it now, was a jumble of coffee pot, sugar bottles, extra salt and pepper bottles, and a miscellaneous assortment of dishes and glasses.
The door jingled again and an elderly woman in a suit of moss green entered the diner. She wore a hat from days gone by that sat on the top of her head, with netting covering her eyes. In one hand she held a tiny dog with a ribbon on top of her head. In the other, a green purse and a bag which she deposited on the counter next to Timothy as she swooped in.
"Morning Edith." George gave a wave of his hand. "That more apple butter? I only have a half bottle left. It's the best."
Edith pinched her lips together, "Yes of course it is. I promised more this morning, and here it is. Now would you be so kind as to have a hamburger broiled and cut up for Priscilla?"
Priscilla, obviously was the the tiny dog in her arm.
"As usual." George gave a little wave and returned to the kitchen.
These people must all know one another very well Timothy thought, by the way they interacted. That was nice. He hadn't been close with his neighbors in the city. Too many people, too busy. He liked it here already. It was quiet. There was no music here, but there seemed in the short time he had been here, to be a rhythm to the place. The smell of the early morning combined with the easy quiet talk. He thought he could get used to this. This feeling of timelessness. Little did he know how timeless it was.
Chapter 2
As Amy came back through the door with the coffee pot still in her hand, "Are you ready to order? The bread just came out of the oven, It's nice and warm, and we have fresh apple butter. Mrs. Grimsley brought in a batch yesterday. She's still getting some apples off her tree." She smiled, put the pot down after noticing that the customer hadn't touched the cup. "Oh, is there something wrong with the coffee? Too strong? Too weak? People are funny about their morning joe you know.". She was pleasant enough.
" No, actually, I don't drink coffee." He managed to get in before she went on with some other detail about the coffee.
"Oh, I am so sorry. Tea?"
"No thanks, a nice tall glass of orange juice would be nice." He smiled at her as she wrote it down on her pad.
"How about that breakfast?"
"I 'll jut have the blue light special, eggs, scrambled, bacon, no ham, a some of that fresh bread, don't bother to toast it." He was just an ordinary guy ordering an ordinary breakfast.
After writing on the pad, Amy turned her head and instead of disappearing behind the doors, called into the back "blue plate 2 mashed and raw". Then turning back to the stranger seemed to settle in for a conversation. "You must be new here, passing through?"
The customer looked at her, not annoyed at all for the intrusion into himself. "Actually, I'm here for an interview with the newspaper, 'The Journal'. My name is Timothy." He didn't offer a last name, but offered his hand by way of introduction.
Amy took the hand, shook it slightly and then tinkled, "Oh, you must be the boy here to replace old Sam. He's got arthritis so bad he can't write anymore and he refuses to use any contraption other then a pencil." Timothy thought this rather odd, and asked, "Why doesn't he get someone to write or dictate for him?"
"Oh no, not old Sam. Besides, he's eighty two and said he needs to retire so he can see the world. I think he's going into the city for a weekend." She laughed easily again. "It's nice to meet you Timothy, Can I call you Tim? Thanks. I'll just go fill Henry's cup and be back with that orange juice." She slipped around the counter and went to refill Henry's coffee cup. He still hadn't seen the man's face, but knew it was old because of those gnarly hands.
When the breakfast arrived Timothy tucked in leaning on the counter with his elbows and taking a long swig of the fresh juice. After eating, he reached in his pocket and took a out a pad and pencil of his own. He thought he might get a head start and ask Amy about the town he was now considering as his new home.
Had she lived here all her life? Family? School? What did she know about the history of the place.
"Well, this diner, or this town?" She bypassed the personal questions.
"Sure, the diner." He wrote the word on the top of his pad. "What's it called? I didn't see a sign other then the one hanging outside that says "Diner".
"Yep, It is Diner. That's it. I don't think it ever had a different name." Amy pushed her eyebrows as if in deep thought. "No, I don't think it ever did have a real name."
A shuffle of paper sounded from the corner and as Timothy turned in his seat, a pair of watery blue eyes peered over the top of the pages. "Cafe'. He grunted and the paper went back up.
"Cafe? Cafe What?"
Again, the paper came down. "Cafe" from behind the paper, "Just that, Cafe. "
Timothy thought a moment and offered, "Well, when did it go from Cafe to Diner?"
"Always been."
Amy chimed in now, "Oh, that's right. Some people do call it the Cafe Diner, Or The Diner Cafe" She pushed her eyebrows together. " That's funny. I never really thought about it before." With a 'hm', she turned and disappeared into the kitchen.
A moment later she returned with an older gentleman, maybe in his sixties. He wore an old white apron hiding a pot belly. Gray hair, unkempt, flour on his hands and towel tucked into the apron led Timothy to believe this was the cook.
"This is George. He owns the place. Ask him about the diner." Amy backed away.
George stepped forward and offered his dusty hand, "George Andrews."
"Nice to meet you George. I'm Timothy. I here interviewing for the newspaper job." Taking George's firm grip he returned with a firm grip of his own. "I was just trying to find out a bit about this town."
Clearing his throat, seeming a friendly sort, George spoke, " Well now, I've been here all my life. I own this diner, or cafe if you must know." He smiled revealing an overly large whitish smile.
Timothy returned the smile and asked if it would be alright if he took some notes. George nodded and asked what it was he wanted to know.
"Well, for one thing, how come it's just called diner?"
"Well now, we never did come up with a proper name. My wife, God rest her soul, wanted it to be a cafe, you know, one of those fancy coffee places that serves tea and sandwiches and fancy soups. Me, I just wanted a good old fashion diner, you know, burgers, ice cream sundaes and such. So when Mildred, God rest her soul was working in between the kids, she called it cafe, and served coffee in tea cups and made them little cucumber sandwiches. But I still made meatloaf and mashed potatoes. So, depending on who you asked it was either Diner. Or Cafe. Simple as that."
Timothy smiled. Amy piped in,"Hey George, I never knew that. But come to think of it, when Mildred was here, she did always use that fancy teacup." She pointed to the back counter where a lone, bone china teacup and saucer sat on what appeared to be a fancy doily. The rest of the counter, as Timothy looked at it now, was a jumble of coffee pot, sugar bottles, extra salt and pepper bottles, and a miscellaneous assortment of dishes and glasses.
The door jingled again and an elderly woman in a suit of moss green entered the diner. She wore a hat from days gone by that sat on the top of her head, with netting covering her eyes. In one hand she held a tiny dog with a ribbon on top of her head. In the other, a green purse and a bag which she deposited on the counter next to Timothy as she swooped in.
"Morning Edith." George gave a wave of his hand. "That more apple butter? I only have a half bottle left. It's the best."
Edith pinched her lips together, "Yes of course it is. I promised more this morning, and here it is. Now would you be so kind as to have a hamburger broiled and cut up for Priscilla?"
Priscilla, obviously was the the tiny dog in her arm.
"As usual." George gave a little wave and returned to the kitchen.
These people must all know one another very well Timothy thought, by the way they interacted. That was nice. He hadn't been close with his neighbors in the city. Too many people, too busy. He liked it here already. It was quiet. There was no music here, but there seemed in the short time he had been here, to be a rhythm to the place. The smell of the early morning combined with the easy quiet talk. He thought he could get used to this. This feeling of timelessness. Little did he know how timeless it was.
Chapter 2
Saturday, October 25, 2014
On any normal autumn day,one could be seen strolling the streets downtown, stopping here and there for flowers, pumpkins and the usual fall decorations that accompany the season. It was several weeks before Halloween, so among the windows of the retail stores of an age gone by were the usual white sheet ghosts and corn stalks. But this wasn't a day gone by. It was today. And one particular shop, still steeped in decor from yesteryear, was the local diner.
It sits one corner, by a 4 way stop sign. On the kiddie corner stands the old brick Court house. directly across the street sits a five and dime, seemingly unchanged from the days of Five and Tens. On the other side, the empty lot where the kids still gathered for a pick up game of baseball, or as the weather now dictated, football. What had stood there before the lot had been cleared was an old pickle factory. It had gone the way of many factories, but not in the usual financial way. The owner had passed on over 30 years ago and had stipulated in his will that the factory was to close and the spot left clear for future generations of children to play. No one had questioned, no one had tried to buy the lot. It was for the kids.
So, the diner had the perfect view of the town's going's on. And on this early morning the smell of fresh baking bread wafted from the kitchen. The broad window that overlooked the tree corners there was seated an elderly gentleman. He was here every morning. A fixture really. He kept to himself and his newspaper, his yellowed white hair hanging over his eyebrow, his gnarly hand occassionally reaching around the newpaper for the black coffee which was refilled by the waitress who walked back and forth through the kitchen door. The old door, in the old diner, was silver with two convienent round windows to peer into or out of. There was no one else here yet. It was the beginning of a new morning in the little town, in this sidewalk dinner, and in this very year.
A customer opened the door and jingled the bells, ancient, hanging over the door. He was a youngish looking man, in his mid thirties, dark haired, average height, but with the most outstanding blue eyes. He looked around the place as though not familiar with it. There was the counter with 5 or 6 swivel stools, worn red and white seats. The tables all boosted laminate gray tops with salt and pepper, sugar and ketchup bottles clumped in the middle. The silverware rolled in paper napkins. He looked toward the kitchen doors on this side of the building, another set of doors with windows. Coming through it now with the coffee pot was Amy, the waitress. She had a saucer and cup in that brown paper bag color of yesteryear. She smiled a crooked tooth smile at the customer and pointed with the pot, table or counter. He chose the first spot at the counter which sat next to an ancient cash register, rusted gold with a $ sign in Old English text in the top window.
Still not speaking, the waitress poured a cup of coffee before the he could offer any alternative. He was enamored with this place out of time. The girl looked to be in her early twenties, maybe a college age student, he thought. Dirty blonde hair tied up in a ponytail. She wore a white apron with pink trimming and as she took out the pad and pencil to take his order before even allowing him to see the worn out menu standing between a bottle of ketcup and syrup.
Smiling that crooked toothed smile, she was a pretty girl with hazel eyes, but nothing outstanding about her. She stood there without a word, pencil in hand.
"Could I have a moment please?" He cleared his throat. He had very white teeth. The old blacket jacket he wore almost looked out of place, too new.
"Oh sure, sorry honey . I'm just used to the people who usually come in. You're a stranger here aren't you?"
"Just passing through." He smiled as she reached over and handed him the plastc cover menu stained from constant use.
" You want creamer for that coffee?" She pointed to the cup with her pencil.
"Well, no actually..."
Before he could say he didn't really drink coffee, she turned on her sneakered foot and disappeared behind the two round windows.
It sits one corner, by a 4 way stop sign. On the kiddie corner stands the old brick Court house. directly across the street sits a five and dime, seemingly unchanged from the days of Five and Tens. On the other side, the empty lot where the kids still gathered for a pick up game of baseball, or as the weather now dictated, football. What had stood there before the lot had been cleared was an old pickle factory. It had gone the way of many factories, but not in the usual financial way. The owner had passed on over 30 years ago and had stipulated in his will that the factory was to close and the spot left clear for future generations of children to play. No one had questioned, no one had tried to buy the lot. It was for the kids.
So, the diner had the perfect view of the town's going's on. And on this early morning the smell of fresh baking bread wafted from the kitchen. The broad window that overlooked the tree corners there was seated an elderly gentleman. He was here every morning. A fixture really. He kept to himself and his newspaper, his yellowed white hair hanging over his eyebrow, his gnarly hand occassionally reaching around the newpaper for the black coffee which was refilled by the waitress who walked back and forth through the kitchen door. The old door, in the old diner, was silver with two convienent round windows to peer into or out of. There was no one else here yet. It was the beginning of a new morning in the little town, in this sidewalk dinner, and in this very year.
A customer opened the door and jingled the bells, ancient, hanging over the door. He was a youngish looking man, in his mid thirties, dark haired, average height, but with the most outstanding blue eyes. He looked around the place as though not familiar with it. There was the counter with 5 or 6 swivel stools, worn red and white seats. The tables all boosted laminate gray tops with salt and pepper, sugar and ketchup bottles clumped in the middle. The silverware rolled in paper napkins. He looked toward the kitchen doors on this side of the building, another set of doors with windows. Coming through it now with the coffee pot was Amy, the waitress. She had a saucer and cup in that brown paper bag color of yesteryear. She smiled a crooked tooth smile at the customer and pointed with the pot, table or counter. He chose the first spot at the counter which sat next to an ancient cash register, rusted gold with a $ sign in Old English text in the top window.
Still not speaking, the waitress poured a cup of coffee before the he could offer any alternative. He was enamored with this place out of time. The girl looked to be in her early twenties, maybe a college age student, he thought. Dirty blonde hair tied up in a ponytail. She wore a white apron with pink trimming and as she took out the pad and pencil to take his order before even allowing him to see the worn out menu standing between a bottle of ketcup and syrup.
Smiling that crooked toothed smile, she was a pretty girl with hazel eyes, but nothing outstanding about her. She stood there without a word, pencil in hand.
"Could I have a moment please?" He cleared his throat. He had very white teeth. The old blacket jacket he wore almost looked out of place, too new.
"Oh sure, sorry honey . I'm just used to the people who usually come in. You're a stranger here aren't you?"
"Just passing through." He smiled as she reached over and handed him the plastc cover menu stained from constant use.
" You want creamer for that coffee?" She pointed to the cup with her pencil.
"Well, no actually..."
Before he could say he didn't really drink coffee, she turned on her sneakered foot and disappeared behind the two round windows.
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