George Mackenzie and Dave Winston were already sitting at a window table at Mabel’s Grill the other morning when the old pick-up pulled into the parking lot.
    “Look at that!” said Dave. “I bet I could use my old music tapes if I had a truck that old.”
    At that point, Cliff Murray got out and headed toward the restaurant door.
    “Wouldn’t you know it!” muttered George, shaking his head.
    “Morning all,” Cliff said, nodding to Molly Whiteside and Mabel as he made his way to his seat.
    “You traded in your old beater, I see,” said Dave, suppressing a smile.
    “And got a newer beater instead,” added George.  
    “No sense watching money fly out of my bank account with depreciation like you guys with your new trucks,” said Cliff as he scanned the menu Molly had left for him. 
    “You know I’ll bet I could have got you more money for your old truck than you did,” said Dave. “I was at one of those antique car  shows and saw a truck just like your old one.”
    “That’s who I sold my truck to,” said Cliff. “Some guy saw my truck when I got out of it at the parking lot at the fall fair and offered a good price to buy it.”
    “Even with the hole rusted in the floor boards?” George wondered.
    “Yup. Paid me so much money that I had  enough to get my new truck – with some left over,” said George. “Any of you guys had an offer like that when you traded in your fancy four-wheel-drive models after two or three years?” he smirked as Dave and George shared a look of wonder.
    “Say, that’s an interesting old truck,” said Molly as she glanced out the window at Cliff’s old truck.
    “That’s my new truck,” smiled Cliff.  
    “He’ll be picking up the bill today,” smirked Dave, nodding toward Cliff. “He’s the one who’s in the money this morning.
    “Sure, why not,” smiled Cliff.             Molly cocked a quizzical smile at them but things were busy enough that she just copied down their orders on and returned to the kitchen.
    “Next year your buyer will probably have that antique truck in the parade at the fair,” Dave added, entering the conversation again.
    “I doubt that,” snorted George. “It’ll take longer than that to get the hole in the floor and the upholstery fixed and a new paint job on that old truck,.” 
    “That’s his problem, not mine,” shrugged Cliff. “At least it won’t be taking up space in some junkyard.”    
    “I thought I’d swing by the orchard and pick up a gallon of apple cider on the way home,” he added.
    “It ought to be the fermented kind, so you can celebrate,” said Dave.
    “Nah, I’ll stick with the old-fashioned kind,” Cliff said.
    “I saw on the television the other night a story about a new place making alcoholic cider,” said George. “Seems like there’s a story every other day about some new place making booze – some new brewery or winery or distillery.”
    “Funny thing,” Dave said, “people are always complaining that what we get for our crops is too much. Then they get our corn or barley or wheat or oats made into some alcoholic drink and they don’t complain about the price at all.”
    “Unless it’s for the tax the government charges on alcohol,” Cliff added. “Then they complain plenty!”
    “If my old grandfather wasn’t dead he’d probably keel over what with all the places making booze these days,” said George. “He remembered when there was a prohibition on making all alcohol.”
    “Yeh, but those were the days when there was a big family on every 100-acre farm,” said Cliff. “People could get away with a few cows and a few pigs and a few acres of crops.”
    “Of course they also had to get by with old trucks like the one you sold with no music but the radio,” chuckled Dave. ◊