Free Tilting at Windmills by Joseph Pittman Page B

images lingered long in my mind.
     
    I ’d driven east, then west, and also north and south, and many times I’d gone in no particular direction. No point of the compass had a hold on me, and my aimless journey continued, but to where and for what purpose, I still had no idea. The fun was in the finding and now, six weeks since I’d left my former life, I’d gotten the first sign that maybe I was heading in the right direction. The reason? That impossibly placed windmill, and the two utterly charming women who had instantly beguiled me.
    I drove for only three more miles when I came to the nearest stretch of civilization, a little village by the name of Linden Corners. Population 724, established in 1887, or so said a wooden sign posted at the edge of the village. LINDEN CORNERS WELCOMES YOU , read another sign. I had the feeling that had I blinked, I’d have missed the whole town.
    There are lots of places like this all over New York State, and in the Hudson River Valley, lots, too, that include the word Corners in their name, solidifying the already quaint feel so prevalent in this region. A favorite of city weekenders, the Hudson River Valley is rich with antique shops and B&Bs and fruit stands and lots of history, which is preserved in lovingly kept homes and museums. Charm is a word often used to describe this lush region, and Linden Corners was photographic proof of the word. Along with a variety of shops situated along the road, a hardware store, two antique dealers, an old-fashioned general store, and a trading post, Linden Corners boasted a lovely park that was lined with great elm trees budding with new life, and, at its center, a gazebo, white with black trim. Benches lined the park’s perimeter, and there were people sitting, walking, all enjoying a perfectly sun-drenched spring day.
    Passing through Linden Corners was happenstance, of course, as I could have taken any number of rural roads in my quest to cross out of New York and into Massachusetts. So the fact that I found myself drawn to the quiet charm of this hidden gem, beckoned first by its neighboring windmill, I wondered if something spiritual had pulled me in this direction. Seeking quiet contemplation, I decided here was as good a place as any to rest.
    I imagined little Janey Sullivan sitting down for her midday meal, and my stomach grumbled. I’d already been on the road five hours today, having left Rochester around seven o’clock following a quick breakfast. The idea of a sandwich, maybe grabbing a bench in the village park to eat it, pushed itself to the forefront of my mind. Trouble was, this wasn’t New York, where delis occupied every corner.
    So I began to look for a suitable lunch spot and saw, a short distance away, a plastic sign overhanging a small building. It read MARTHA ’ S FIVE O ’ CLOCK DINER , an interesting name. Doubt crept into my thoughts, though, since there were just two other cars in the graveled lot. Hunger overrode my concerns, and I stepped out of the car and breathed in the fresh air.
    My fears were unfounded. I liked the bright and sunny decor immediately and was overwhelmed by the most incredible smells coming from the kitchen. Old ’50s music played on a jukebox, and a young woman behind the counter bopped along—until she caught sight of me. She gave me a welcome wave and offered me my choice, counter service or a booth. I noticed there was only one other customer, a lone guy sitting at the counter.
    “The lunch rush is over, so it’s your call,” she said. Her nametag read SARA.
    “Thanks, Sara. A booth will be fine.”
    “You’ve got your choice there, too.”
    Indeed I did. There were six empty booths along the far wall. I chose the one closest, with Sara following close on my heels, a pad and pen at the ready.
    “Do you know what you’d like?” she asked.
    “A menu?” I ventured.
    “It’s not very tasty,” she said, to my surprise. “Would you like fries with that?” And then she