Cold Sale. . . . . Jupes. . . . .Orphan Paper

Bad morning breath exhaled through the little valley, sending squirrels scrambling up their trees. The night before, rain stayed hard, wind shifting over Hasting’s Dairy with its waste lagoon filled with shit. Fredericks’ Pontiac fishtailed over packed mud and came to a crooked stop in front of an old tin mailbox. The salesman could just make out the faded Rural Route 1A Gantner Sharp’s son had painted on fifteen years before using his own Testor’s enamel. The boy had gone to the trouble of lifting the little jar out of his coffee can and presenting it to the old man cradled between two cupped hands. Gantner had no choice but to let him do the lettering.

The unpaved road passing in front of the Sharp house wasn’t on the last two Esso road maps but people in Jenkins still called it One-A, the only route over the mountains for a century. After the Interstate went in, Gantner and Rhoda ended up being the sole boarders along the entire stretch.

Epp’s hardware was set to deliver feed the following morning but as it was, Gantner ran out of whole grain three days earlier. The animals couldn’t wait. By the time Fredericks arrived, Gantner had taken the 150 into town.