Knocking on Death’s Door

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The sky turned black as a thunderstorm rolled over the tip of the Door peninsula. Hail the size of nickels fell for minutes. It was July. We pulled into the parking lot of Bea’s and waited until the weather blew over.

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There were so many things Etta wanted to buy: chopped cherry jam, homemade caramels, a frozen pie. I was traumatized by the thunderstorm, especially coming off the derecho that struck southwest Wisconsin and Chicago earlier this summer.

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I talked to the owner, maybe it was Bea herself, about the weather, thinking it may calm me down. She confirmed that they see hundreds of water spouts off both coasts of Door peninsula every summer. I felt compelled to nearly clean out the entire section of day-old treats. The cup of delicious raspberry filled donut holes soothed my nerves.

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