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Cassy


Cassy's hands were permanently disfigured from kneading dough. Chinese farmers can relate. She looked up and spoke briefly with sincere tired crystal blue eyes. 'My hands are messed up from making these dam Pasties'. I knew it only too well. Perhaps thirty five years earlier I turned left off the Mackinac Bridge onto US 2, headed for Newberry to deliver golf course equipment for Fergusons Lawn Equipment out of Traverse City. Long distance driving, mostly day trips around Northern Michigan in the summer filling orders for greens keepers. I stopped at the famous Lehto's Pasty's, seven miles west of the bridge, as they proudly claimed on their hand painted sign. I was hungry and they promised relief. The bar stool arrangement had plumbers and truck drivers lined up from one end to the other with their fat asses hanging off the polished stainless and red vinyl bar stools. 'Only to look' as they say. Cassy's mom was hot. Even a guy twenty years old got riled up about it. She wore a white cotton turtleneck with long sleeves which fit her body like a track suit. Her bluejeans were unremarkable; would have gone unnoticed if she wasn't in them. Cassy delivered a meat pie stuffed with vegetables and salted ground beef. She beamed at me promising future pleasures. Scented odors wandered through the window screens from Lake Michigan and tall white pines. Her mother told me 'stop by on my way back and spend the night', you can go out with Cassy and have some fun. After delivering my supplies, I returned early evening and she stuck a crisp fifty dollar bill in my hand. 'Go have some fun' and we did. All night long. Cassy never remembered me. I left her working alone in that lonely broken down shop, her business all but gone. I never saw her again and stopped some years later and a man said she had an accident and died. He was making Pasties.

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