“He asked me what a combine was,” old Earl Lindquist told me at the diner, shaking his head. “A grown man. A bank manager. Didn’t know what a combine was.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I showed him.” Earl grinned. “Took him for a ride. Kid about fell out of the cab, he was so excited. Said it was the coolest thing he’d ever seen.” He shook his head. “Coolest thing he’d ever seen. A combine.”
In August, I brought Shelly a big bunch of Peace roses, wrapped in wet newspaper.
She put them in a coffee can on the counter by her window.
Right next to the peppermint bowl.
And when I slid my forty-dollar check from the Methodist church under the glass, she cashed it without asking for anything at all.
“How are the tomatoes this year, Dot?”
“Better than ever. I’ve got help now.”
