The diner stands on Dexter's town square, operating out of a small building that housed the town's first library. I still remember dining on the baked fried chicken in the summer of 2010. At least, I am pretty sure it wasn't last summer. I drove out from Ann Arbor along the Huron River hoping the establishment offered Sunday dinners. I am glad I had such an enthusiasm for a meal, although my efforts have been thwarted. In a moment, I'll take off and turn towards Chelsea, not pursuing any specific dinner. Not sure what could capture my gut's fancy right now. I am loath to board the freeway before dark, about an hour from now. In Ann Arbor, the coffeehouses are occupied by men and women setting up little offices with notebooks, laptops, iPhones and textbooks. I noticed one woman bounce from an easy chair to a two top to a four top in the matter of minutes. At this coffeehouse in Dexter, I only see two encampments, one an outpost for a woman journaling, writing a journal she'll burn with a batch of handwritten books a few years from now. I just throw my words onto the Internet, where theoretically the words will line forever.
It will be a great gift of grace if I ever have time to reread and edit these articles. I take pleasure that an audience gives them any attention at all.
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