der as the old horse drawn wagon came into town. The little kids that didn’t even remember Joe and Walter ran excitedly to see the visitor with the wagon of apples and pears. As he came closer, I hardly recognized the tattered old man leading the brown and white work horse. He stopped the wagon in front of me and Ronny. “Margie?” Joe asked, he, too, acting as if I’d almost completely changed. “Joe! Why have you started selling apples again?” I talked with him, yet I felt I was a stranger to this bent man in dirty baggy overalls and patched green shirt. “Why, I never quit sellin’ fruit, I just found a little more profitable route. Got a horse to feed, ya know. . .” He stopped then, struggling to find more words to say. He smiled thoughtfully and a big hole where his tooth was missing showed. His teeth were yellow and his beard greasy and matted. We talked, but I realized there was no more rodeo and probably never really was. Ronny gave Joe a nickel for two apples. Joe pulled THE WEDDING by Shauna The rays of the western sun beat through the back window of the old Buick and throbbed on Jill Slate’s bare neck: Jill raised her hand from her lap and wiped the salty moisture from her forehead. She dropped her hand back to her lap and fingered the bouquet of purple orchids that she held in the other hand. The flimsy petals felt soft and thin between her fingers. Jill looked up suddenly to the front seat of the car as her mother said, “Don‘t touch the orchids, Jill. They’ll wilt before the ceremony even starts.” Jill pulled her mouth to one side. ‘‘O.K.,” she said, dropping her head down again. She raised the bouquet of orchids to her nose and sniffed at one flower. It didn’t smell like a flower but like a weed. She wondered how a flower so pretty could smell like an ugly weed. She laid the bouquet on her taffeta skirt and pulled her sweaty fingers away from it. Jill looked at her older sister sitting next to her in the back seat. She thought how beautiful she was with her auburn hair and small facial fea- the waned kerchief from his back pocket and shined the biggest ones he ad. The smaller kids were surrounding us with pleas to get an apple and ride on Walter, this big sweaty work horse. I smiled good afternoon to Joe, and Ronny and I went up to the porch where Mom had been standing and watching. “Oh, Mom! What’s happened to Joe and Walter?” She looked at me, ‘“‘What do you mean, honey? They’ve looked just like that for as long as I can remember.”’ Mom waved hello to Joe and went out to the fruit wagon to buy some apples and pears. GRANDMA’S She sits in And knits The click Develop The My very slowly. the squeak Keeps And rocker of time by and sweater’s her needles sweater. of her rocker with the music by composed. Shaunna 18 tures. MUSIC her Whittier Whittier y Her green eyes were small and oval with long dark lashes curling out of the lids. Her pointy nose turned up on the end and set prettily on her small face. Her thin pink lips parted in a slight smile. Jill knew what she was thinking. “You excited, Sarah?” she asked. sarah looked at Jill and grinned showing her teeth. ‘A little,” she said. ‘“‘Whadda ya mean, a little?” said Jill. “You’ve got little butterflies flying all around in your stomach.” “How do you know, Carrot Head?” said Sarah. Jill nodded her head up and down and looked out the corner of her eye at Sarah. “I know,” she said. _ Jill thought how Sarah was always excited about big events. Christmas was always the greatest time of the year around the Slate’s house, and Sarah was usually the cause of it. She had so much enthusiasm when they’d all bundle up to go out in the snow hunting for a Christmas tree. When it came time to decorate it, Sarah was always the first to get everything ready. She kept all the presents arranged neatly underneath it, putting the prettiest ones out in front so they would show. On Christmas Eve Sarah would rollick around lighting candles, singing carols, and hanging stockings up at the fireplace. She always let Jill sleep with her on Christmas Eve. Jill thought that was about the best part of Christmas. They’d set the alarm for 5:30 a.m. and sing carols together in bed until they fell asleep. ‘“‘But, she won’t be sleeping with me next Christmas Eve,’’ thought Jill. “She’ll be sleeping with Jim. I wonder if they’ll sing carols too?” Jill looked out of the car window and watched the trees and houses that they passed. She brushed some orange strands of hair behind her ear with her sweaty fingers and smoothed the back of her hair to the nape of her neck. Her hair felt hot from the July sun that still beat through the back window. The heat irritated her neck and droplets of 19