children, most of whom also look bored or dazed.
“Wow, I forgot it’s the weekend of the sidewalk sale,” I say.
“It’s even more packed than last year,” Cluny says. “I hope we can get a seat at the Sugar Bowl.”
“Me too. I’m dying for their apple pancakes.”
As we wait for the traffic light to change, I gaze at the shoppers and remember how Mom used to drag Renny and me to the sidewalk sale when we were kids. “My mother always loved this,” I say. “She used to turn it into a kind of mystical experience, as though she was hunting for some special thing she didn’t even know she needed until she found it.”
I can see her on the sidewalk, picking up candlesticks, place mats, sandals, a skirt here, a lamp shade there, giving each item a thorough examination, as though it might be telling her something about itself that wasn’t readily apparent.
“She’s always had a way of spotting cool things,” Cluny says.
“Yeah. If I hadn’t learned her skills in weeding out the junk to discover the gems, I never would have found my purple jelly shoes.”
“Oh my God, I loved jelly shoes,” Cluny says. “I had that pair in hot pink.”
“I remember. Oh, and I got my cassette player–boom box at the sidewalk sale one year.”
“Another great find.”
“And that denim shirt I thought looked exactly like the one Jason Priestley wore in Beverly Hills, 90210 .”
“Yes, you wore it all summer,” Cluny says. “And I had that blue dress that looked like one of Tori Spelling’s.”
“I wish I still had that shirt. Wait, what am I saying? It’s probably in the attic.”
“Knowing your parents, I’m sure it is.”
The light finally turns green, and we pass the Sugar Bowl’s blue and white awning and the sign with a cup of coffee on one side and a bowl of sugar on the other. I pull into the parking lot in the back, trying my best to avoid the potholes left from last winter’s storms. There’s one empty space, and I take it.
The second we walk inside, I’m hit by another wave of memories—sodas and French fries with Cluny after school, and grilled-cheese sandwiches with Renny after her Saturday sports practices.
I look around. “You were right. It’s really crowded.”
We walk along the U-shaped counter, where every stool is taken, and past the sign boasting World’s Best Apple Pie . There’s been heated competition for years among the eating establishments in Dorset over which one has the best apple pie. The sign in the lobby of the Dorset Inn says Best Apple Pie in the Universe, but that assumes there is life on other planets and that those life-forms, whatever they are, have apples and ovens and the desire to make pies.
Having Miller’s Orchards in town is what started the competition decades ago and what keeps it alive today. For years I’ve heard about the street fight that erupted back in the fifties between the owners of Chester’s and the Sea Grape, two restaurants that faded into oblivion long before I was born. Apparently the two men got into it over their apple pies. Some say it’s just a country legend, but, judging from how seriously people around here take their pies, I wouldn’t be so sure.
I glance at the framed photos on the walls as we follow the hostess to a booth—an orange sea star; a striped chambered nautilus; a spiky, purple sea urchin; and the silvery inside of an oyster shell. “New decorations,” I whisper to Cluny.
“I’m so glad they finally got rid of those paintings of doughnuts and muffins,” she says.
I kind of liked them, but I don’t say anything.
Fortunately, everything else is the same—the high-backed booths running along the walls, and the tables in the middle, the glass salt and pepper shakers and frosted sugar dispensers, the blue and white checked curtains tied back with tassels.
Cluny and I slide into our booth and order coffee from a waitress with a haphazard bun, broad shoulders, and Luann on her name tag. I study the
“Wow, I forgot it’s the weekend of the sidewalk sale,” I say.
“It’s even more packed than last year,” Cluny says. “I hope we can get a seat at the Sugar Bowl.”
“Me too. I’m dying for their apple pancakes.”
As we wait for the traffic light to change, I gaze at the shoppers and remember how Mom used to drag Renny and me to the sidewalk sale when we were kids. “My mother always loved this,” I say. “She used to turn it into a kind of mystical experience, as though she was hunting for some special thing she didn’t even know she needed until she found it.”
I can see her on the sidewalk, picking up candlesticks, place mats, sandals, a skirt here, a lamp shade there, giving each item a thorough examination, as though it might be telling her something about itself that wasn’t readily apparent.
“She’s always had a way of spotting cool things,” Cluny says.
“Yeah. If I hadn’t learned her skills in weeding out the junk to discover the gems, I never would have found my purple jelly shoes.”
“Oh my God, I loved jelly shoes,” Cluny says. “I had that pair in hot pink.”
“I remember. Oh, and I got my cassette player–boom box at the sidewalk sale one year.”
“Another great find.”
“And that denim shirt I thought looked exactly like the one Jason Priestley wore in Beverly Hills, 90210 .”
“Yes, you wore it all summer,” Cluny says. “And I had that blue dress that looked like one of Tori Spelling’s.”
“I wish I still had that shirt. Wait, what am I saying? It’s probably in the attic.”
“Knowing your parents, I’m sure it is.”
The light finally turns green, and we pass the Sugar Bowl’s blue and white awning and the sign with a cup of coffee on one side and a bowl of sugar on the other. I pull into the parking lot in the back, trying my best to avoid the potholes left from last winter’s storms. There’s one empty space, and I take it.
The second we walk inside, I’m hit by another wave of memories—sodas and French fries with Cluny after school, and grilled-cheese sandwiches with Renny after her Saturday sports practices.
I look around. “You were right. It’s really crowded.”
We walk along the U-shaped counter, where every stool is taken, and past the sign boasting World’s Best Apple Pie . There’s been heated competition for years among the eating establishments in Dorset over which one has the best apple pie. The sign in the lobby of the Dorset Inn says Best Apple Pie in the Universe, but that assumes there is life on other planets and that those life-forms, whatever they are, have apples and ovens and the desire to make pies.
Having Miller’s Orchards in town is what started the competition decades ago and what keeps it alive today. For years I’ve heard about the street fight that erupted back in the fifties between the owners of Chester’s and the Sea Grape, two restaurants that faded into oblivion long before I was born. Apparently the two men got into it over their apple pies. Some say it’s just a country legend, but, judging from how seriously people around here take their pies, I wouldn’t be so sure.
I glance at the framed photos on the walls as we follow the hostess to a booth—an orange sea star; a striped chambered nautilus; a spiky, purple sea urchin; and the silvery inside of an oyster shell. “New decorations,” I whisper to Cluny.
“I’m so glad they finally got rid of those paintings of doughnuts and muffins,” she says.
I kind of liked them, but I don’t say anything.
Fortunately, everything else is the same—the high-backed booths running along the walls, and the tables in the middle, the glass salt and pepper shakers and frosted sugar dispensers, the blue and white checked curtains tied back with tassels.
Cluny and I slide into our booth and order coffee from a waitress with a haphazard bun, broad shoulders, and Luann on her name tag. I study the
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