One more back-breaking, mind-dulling day, and Luke Tate was homeward bound. He carved a slice from his last slab of salt pork and dropped it into the hot skillet, turning his head to keep the spatter from his eyes. In a moment he would pull sourdough biscuits from the coals. Opening a pan of biscuits in the dawn chill, filling his lungs with that heavenly aroma, thick enough to cut with a knife, was one of his more pleasurable chores, one he would miss when he got back to the farm. If he still had a farm. Six months without a letter from home.
Normally I love love more than I love the object of my love, but when the 1924 Ford popcorn wagon popped out at me from the showroom window, its brass fixtures aglow, its oak trim deep and mysterious, its candy-apple-red body chock-a-block with maroon curlicues and fancy gold lettering, its copper popcorn popper blazing in the late sun like a giant eye, I fell head over heels.
Raoul and Endira had searched for years for that one elusive yard sale bargain, a concrete bird bath. Not the tree-trunk-and-chipmunk or spotted-mushroom-and-leprechaun kind, but an elegant, neo-classical objet d'art. And here was a yard chock-a-block with concrete creations.
"Where are my cufflinks?" Chandler demanded. In one hour he would accept the most coveted prize his profession bestowed, yet his cufflinks eluded him.
"Why are you asking me?" Diana sighed from her vanity, intent on tracing an indigo arc across a violet eyelid.
Jack and Gloria Springer reveled in the hoopla. "First in line, first to sign!" Jack yapped for the TV cameras. "No outlet!" Gloria tittered, pointing to the pamphlet. "It means dead end, dummy!" Jack snapped without moving his lips.
The next day, their radiant faces beamed beneath the bold headline, Dream Street 'dreamboat' sold to Springers.