4
Cynthia remembered the Redhead Roundup more like photographic flashes than a continuous memory. It wasn’t that her mind was going or the seventy-six years that had intervened; it was the nature of the weekend itself.
The big Saturday-morning, twenty-five cent pancake breakfast in the sparkling new Puffin Diner had to be eaten so quickly because the redheaded line at the tiny seaside café was out the door.
Splashing about in the cold water where the high tide had overridden the mud flats for the “clam-digging” contest. Prizes had been hidden beneath the sand in clam shells, but by the time the tide was down low enough on Sunday, no one could quite remember where the prizes had been buried. Most of the clams that were dug had been real ones which were cooked on the beach that night.
S
