Farmhouse Bakery

Original Paragraph:
I've gone on other Friday milk runs with my father, and there was one address I was especially looking forward to. It came early in the run: 214 White Horse Rd. The Huffelmeyers. The Huffelmeyers are an old couple. They get one quart of buttermilk, one quart of chocolate each week. But my father doesn't leave their stuff on the front step--he takes it inside. See, the Huffelmeyers remember the old days, when things were safer and they left the front door unlocked all the time and the milkman just came in and put their stuff in the fridge. And that's the way they keep it. At 214 White Horse Road it's still 1940. We just walk on in. Dad turns on a small table lamp with a fringed shade so we can see. We stay as quiet as we can. While Dad heads for the kitchen, I like to stop and look at the pictures. There must be a hundred family photographs in the living and dining rooms. I watch them go from black and white snapshots--the young married couple, he in his World War II uniform, she in a floral dress and wide-brimmed hat, standing arm in arm in front of a ferris wheel--to color pictures of the old couple surrounded by kids and grandkids and, it looks like, great-grandkids.
Leo, some people might say it's creepy, tiptoeing through someone's house at four o'clock in the morning--but it's not. It's wonderful. It's a sharing. It's the Huffelmeyers saying to us, Come into our house. Look at whatever you like. Get to know us. We're upstairs, sleeping. Feel free to stroll through our dreams and memories. We trust you. And don't forget to take the empty bottles.

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I really love the way Jerry Spinelli writes his Stargirl books. He is an amazing writer. I am going to do an imitation of this paragraph.
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Monday, Wednesday, Friday. Calendar reads: Bakery 8-3, bakery 8-3, bakery 8-3. Summer of 2009 is officially booked. The title "Career Education" has a dual meaning: it equals one more credit towards liberating my mind of highschool, and it also means my summer totally planned out; a violation to the unwritten law that summer equals total and utter freedom. I wake up at 6:30 to the crowing of a rooster. It's not what you think; it's my mother interrupting my sleep with the advantage of cellular technology. I reluctantly crawl out of bed and throw on my paint-stained pants and canola-oil contaminated shirt. I shuffle to the bathroom and throw my hair into a braid, slap a camo hat on and I am good to go. Sweatshirt? Check. Lunch? Made the night before. I drive down the familiar highway 99 towards Cottage Grove. Turn right past Horner's, go straight through the light, drive until I get to the vast pink farmhouse with the white mailbox. I turn into the driveway and park in my usual spot, right behind the hunter green Dodge Dakota. I rub my eyes and yawn as I amble through the door. I hear Ryan saying "Goodmorning!", and I return the greeting half-heartedly. First thing: labeling. I grab a stack of plastic bread bags and start sticking labels on them. I usually pick the roll with the most stickers on it so I don't have to switch kinds in between. Here comes Beau, Adam, Mike, Ben and Violet, all around the same time. I am awake by this time and say Goodmorning to them all. They are all pretty congenial, most of the time, except I think Mike's not too fond of me because I called him a freak one day. [long story :) .] Minus the small detail that this is taking away from my much awaited summer sleep-in days, I rather enjoy this place.