An excerpt:
I’d been away from Monticello for a couple months, but one evening last week, after a long, hard drive, I pulled into the old elm-shaded driveway and started to unload my bags. Just then, the siren went off. For Monticello-ites, we usually know it’s not a fire. It blasts three times a day, but every time I hear it now, I think of Gene Schafer. Once, just after I moved to town, I was at Gene’s shop and, when the siren sounded, I said, “It must be six o’clock.”
Gene snorted, “Hell, Stiles. That ain’t what those sirens are. You think it means 8 AM, Noon and 6 PM, right?”
“Well,” I replied. “What else could it mean?”
He said, “First siren, time to get up, second siren, time for lunch. Third siren? One more hour til the liquor store closes.” That was Gene.
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