Time was when this area's families spent their lives here, from birth to death with the soil providing their sustenance and the earth the riches, at least for a few. Dean passed a timeworn farmhouse now sitting empty on land far more valuable to a developer than its intended use, its torn curtains shimmering in the paint-peeled window frame-an Andrew Wyeth painting. Hollyhocks remained by the roadside while lilacs stood guard by the door, relics reminiscent of some long-abandoned household, now solely tended by nature. Dean could picture a cluster of children, pinafored girls and overalled boys, playing by the now-leaning wooden fence, part of a family of too many children by today's standards, in a household existing more on unbridled hope and a large measure of love than material possessions. His thoughts wandered to Billy Langstrom's love-widow Melissa, now absent even those precious two commodities with which to face the world.
Back on the pavement, Dean pedaled past Tom, a well-known wild turkey who'd in past months adopted a location on the highway from which he never seemed to stray more than a few hundred yards. He was often sighted strutting down the roadside. Unlike most of his species, he lived alone, as if waiting for female companionship that never came. Dean wished the bird luck as he pedaled by.
Dean returned to Bird Song mid-morning, showered, and walked the three blocks to Diversions, a combination used book store, coffee shop, and local gathering place, on Sixth Street, a half block from Main.
The shop was pleasant, with comfortable easy chairs in the front, coffee counter in the center and tables to the rear. The walls were filled with books while plants added to the warm and homey atmosphere. Dean spotted three of the old men gathered at their usual table for their morning repast of caffeine and cake and gossip. Dean ordered a cup of black Kona. He recognized Roger as one of the three. The other two he'd seen about town but couldn't put a name with a face. All had been collecting Social Security for a good part of Dean's lifetime. Two were reading different sections of a newspaper while Roger was stirring his coffee and chatting, although no one seemed to be listening. Roger was a tiny man, no taller than Cynthia, with snowy white hair and sparkling blue eyes. The other two were of a slightly newer vintage. Dean knew from reading their newspaper comments and hearing of their exploits that age had in no way diminished their faculties.
He sauntered up to the table. "Hi, fellas." The greeting was met with polite nods. "Hope I'm not intruding." More nods. "I'm David Dean."