Rollin Penner

It’s lovely outside. I think we should walk.” Rose Jackson stood on the sidewalk halfway between the front door and the truck parked in the driveway. Andrew stopped with his hand on the door handle of the truck and turned to look at his wife. “Seriously?” he said. “You want to spoil a beautiful sunny

This place is so interesting!” Jennifer Jackson looked around the little restaurant as she spoke. “It’s like somebody decorated it 70 years ago and then randomly changed a few things every 10 years or so.” She pointed at the corner behind her mother Rose, who was sitting across from her at the table. “Like, the

Andrew Jackson stepped out of his pickup truck, slammed the door behind him and then paused for a moment to look around before heading into the shop. Banks of snow ringed the yard and lined the driveway, shrinking daily in the sunshine and zero temperature, but still several feet high. The cattle in the pasture

Andrew Jackson looked up from the newspaper he was reading and set his coffee cup down on the kitchen table beside his breakfast plate. Rose remained engrossed in the Scrabble game she was playing on her iPad. “How about those Jets.” Andrew leaned back in his chair. “What about ’em?” Rose didn’t look up. “They

Here’s what I don’t understand,” Grant Toews was saying, as Andrew Jackson pulled a chair up to the window table at the café and sat down. Grant paused to greet Andrew with a nod, as did Bob Billings and Harold Schlamp, who were already seated at the table. “Good morning gentlemen,” said Andrew. “Don’t let

Hello?” Rose Jackson turned her head slightly towards the phone lying on the kitchen counter next to the mixing bowl she was measuring flour and sugar into. “Oh, hi Mom!” Randy’s voice came through the speaker phone clearly. “What’s up?” Rose picked up a whisk and began to stir the contents of the bowl. “Dad

Andrew Jackson pulled into the last open parking spot in front of the café, turned off the ignition, and began preparations for the 30-foot journey from his truck to the door. First he pulled the hood of his Viking-brand parka up over his John Deere hat, then pulled his scarf up over his face leaving

Andrew Jackson pressed the power button on the remote control and watched the TV screen blink off across the room. He picked up a noisemaker from the end table beside his armchair and blew into it, producing a rather unconvincing celebratory squawk. “Well, so much for that,” he said. “Another year is shot.” “Happy New

I’ve made a list.” Rose Jackson looked up from her tablet and stared briefly out of the window before looking over at her husband to see if he was paying attention. He was not. “I’ve made a list,” she repeated, “and I need you to look at it, Andrew.” Andrew looked up from the newspaper