The News Agency The corner store was high on a hill and lined with glass cases and shelves full of penny cigarettes, licorice shoelaces and sugar dots on paper. A lady named Gert made big ice cream cones from all the flavors under heavy black lids that made a dull thud when she flipped them open and closed. There was a lunchroom off to the side with a jukebox where the workmen could sit at wooden tables with red linoleum tops and eat ham sandwiches. One day in April steam shovels dug away part of the hill to widen the pike and the dirt gave way and the lunch room fell off. “No one was in there, thank God,” they said, (but the jukebox). A second tragedy happened in that spot when I jumped off the hill and got stuck in a snow drift up to my chin. Mr. Waddell saw my head on his way home from work and pulled me out. He carried me to my house where I got double cocoa and a pile of cookies right before supper because I was good and didn’t die.