Nonfiction | June 01, 1985

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Weekends the sawmill shut down, and only chuffed an occasional white plume into the blue air to show the boiler was still alive.  So Saturday morning, when I got up early to drive Aunt Lucille to the post office, the town was quiet, only a few farm pickups and dogs hanging around the corner store.  Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, but as she got out to the car and stepped onto the board sidewalk, she said quickly over her shoulder, “I want to see if there’s a letter from my honey.”

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