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.