My Second Home
I waitress at a little restaurant in the small village of Foster, located nine miles from Pierce on Highway 13. Upon entering the ghost town, I see run-down, desolate buildings and hear the humming of a grain elevator. I drive one more block, and I see a single, illuminated sign blowing in the wind, ?Chuckwagon Bar and Grill?. As I step out of my car, I feel the gravel scatter beneath my feet and the breeze carrying the savory scent of fried chicken. As I open the battered front door, the bell dings; it?s a whole new world inside.
There is old country music blaring on the radio, and the stained tables are crowded
with elderly folks gathering around to hear the latest news and juiciest gossip. As I make my way through the slew of greasy tables and plastic chairs, I hear a clatter and a bang from the kitchen. Someone must have dropped a cast-iron skillet. With each step closer to the kitchen, I smell something different, the mouth watering aromas of chicken, french fries, deep-fat fried fish, and tender prime rib. I swing open the paneled
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