I must've been around seven years old (because my mom died when I was eight) when my mom wrote out a note for me to take to the corner party store (that's what Michiganders call a convenience store) to give to the clerk, along with enough money, to pick her up a pack of Viceroy cigarettes. Most of the way, down the long block, had a sidewalk, but not all of it, as our house on the hill was out of the city limits. It was a long ways for a little girl.
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