“I hadn’t particularly liked it as a child, and I sure didn’t now. Strawberry had always been a sad, desolate kind of place to me, and in the years since I’d first seen it nothing much had changed. Verandas still sagged in front of gloomy store buildings and raised wooden sidewalks still creaked and groaned. Wagons and pickups still lined the short strip of paved road that ran hurriedly through the town and away from it, and the spindly row of electrical lines that gave the town its claim to mod...ernity still looked out of place. On Saturdays farm women wearing dresses cut from cotton flour sacks and farm men wearing denim populated the town, and a hound dog that looked to be as old as the town itself still slept wherever it pleased, in the middle of the road mainly, and folks just left him be and went around him.That was Strawberry.And then there were the old men. They were always sitting there on that bench in front of the Barnett Mercantile watching folks, reporting every move, just like some old police force.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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