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The highway is a crusty pavement rolling over and down the hill. The house is big and white, a catching contrast for the lawn and hedges' green—the hay making a neutral field. You are sitting under the shade of the far pine in your white Sunday dress, selling biscuit cakes and lemonade for two cents a glass. The ice you kept fresh, so the gingham apron.

You accepted it for always:   this way—the few unfamiliar faces with, even then, a purchasing intent; and the pump boy from the garage across the road who kept a garden snake for a pet.

It was all very seasonal. The same.

It was Trumball County Ohio, 1943. The papers were showing newsprint photos of sleek warships under German flag, baying in the harbor at Montevideo. But as the cars were then to suggest, everything was far away.