Dobb Boggs walked from his house on West Center Street to the post office at the corner of Main Street Park. Being retired didn’t mean he was tired. Being retired didn’t mean he didn’t need stamps, and, since he was near, he walked to Renegade Lounge for a beer. Yes, it was a Mormon town, but trust a Mormon to make money any way he can. It meant, however, that the city pestered him constantly about mowing the grass in his yard. It was beginning to seem personal. Instead of mowing his grass, Dobb was thinking of planting wildflowers and calling the yard a meadow. Dobb was beginning to think they needed him. Maybe they didn’t know it, but they needed him.
Small-town lives