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The ridge runner's burgers might or might not taste like stale fish, though my father claimed that the coffee was reliable and fresh. The place was never crowded (12).
Outside, a new green sedan with out-of-state plates pulled into the parking lot. Two people got out, a man about forty, and a boy two or three years older than me. Both, to my surprise, were black (13).
I liked sweeping up around the machinery and ancient cabinets filled with tray upon tray of metal and wooden type. I liked the clean odors of well-oiled gears and printers ink and fresh news print just off the Great Northern Paper Company (32).
Cows lining up up pasture bars at milking time; hefty work horses pulling loaded hay wagons (18).
There were no bookshelves in my brother's office. The flimsy plywood walls wouldn't have supported them. Piled everywhere, though, in the corners and against the desk and on the windowsill, were books (21).
To this day it is a widespread tradition in the kingdom to have freshly baked trout instead of ham for Easter dinner (44).
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