ABSTRACT
Saturday morning, Main Street: a line of cars waits at the stoplight in the center of town as the tractor-trailers rumble by on the federal highway. Pedestrians stream across the crosswalks or, more adventurously, dart across the street mid-block in the occasional gap in traffic. The sidewalks are busy outside the gleaming storefronts—the hardware store, with bright red and green lawnmowers and garden tillers on display in front; the small department store, with well-dressed mannequins; the butcher beyond that, easily identified by the strings of sausages hanging in the window. Other storefronts offer tidy awnings and signs leading down the next block to the cluster of pick-ups around the towering grain elevator at the railroad. Bells jingle, announcing the arrival of customers in each store. On the corner sits a neatly painted trash receptacle proudly bearing the city's seal, topped by a planter of geraniums. An old man sits on the dark green park bench nearby. He nods to passersby under the newly planted street trees. Brick storefronts contrast with the limestone of the bank on the corner, its grand façade dwarfing the bakery beside it. Opposite the bank is a café, with patrons waiting outside amid the smell of coffee and hash browns as late breakfasts ease into early lunches.
