Here's every list since my granddaughter got me started, newest at the bottom, the way they'd come through the booth. The ones folks liked best are written out in full below the list. The rest I've still got in a spiral notebook in my purse, and I'll type them in when my fingers get faster. This week's list is on the front page.

10. My granddaughter set up the computer and said it needed "content." I said I've got plenty of that.

9. Ruben has heard all my stories twice. Some of them three times. He's very nice about it.

8. Ten is about how many things happen on a slow night.

7. Twenty seconds per car is just about the right length for a list item.

6. My daughter says I should "write it all down before you forget." I'm not going to forget. But I'll write it down.

5. It's Easter, and the family's all here, and they were all on my side about it.

4. I've watched the Letterman lists for years, and I figure a toll collector sees more of America in a week than he does.

3. Somebody should tell people what goes on in a toll booth. It's more than you'd think.

2. I type faster than I thought I could. Forty words a minute, my granddaughter says, if you don't count the backspace.

1. Because nineteen years of people are worth remembering.

10. French fries. Usually one or two. Once, a whole carton.

9. The ticket, which the wind takes straight under the car. We have a long-handled grabber for this. It's the most-used thing in the booth.

8. A road map, which keeps unfolding while the driver tries to fold it back up. Nobody in history has folded a road map back up at a toll booth.

7. A dollar bill, blown right out of a hand. I've chased three across the lanes. I caught two.

6. Somebody's sunglasses, off the top of their head, onto my ledge.

5. Music. Very loud. Then very quiet, all of a sudden, the second they see me. I've heard every kind there is, and I've liked most of it.

4. Cold air in July. Warm air in January. I'll take either one.

3. A little dog's head, sniffing. I keep biscuits.

2. Somebody's whole argument, picked up in the middle and finished after they pull away.

1. The smell of fresh bread from a bakery truck. The driver gave me a loaf. Best shift of April.

10. A carrier on the roof, held down with bungee cords and hope.

9. Boogie boards in the back window.

8. Dad's already in his swim trunks. It's 9 p.m. and they're four hours from the ocean.

7. The kids ask me "Are we there yet?" I tell them, honestly, not yet.

6. A cooler riding up front with Mom, with her arm around it.

5. Beach chairs sticking out of the trunk, and the trunk tied shut with clothesline.

4. A grandmother in the middle of the back seat in a big straw hat, already, between two grandkids.

3. That coconut smell from the suntan lotion, before they've even left the state.

2. On the way back, a week later: sunburns. Every single one of them.

1. On the way back: sand on the ticket. I don't mind. I like knowing they had a good time.

10. "Do you live in there?" No, hon. It just feels like it some nights.

9. "Do you get to keep the money?" I do not. I wish I did. So does Ruben.

8. "Can I have a ticket?" Kids love the tickets. I'm not supposed to hand out extras, so I let them hold Dad's for a second.

7. "What's your name?" Barbara. They always say it back to me, very seriously.

6. "Is that a real phone?" It is. Nobody ever calls it but the supervisor.

5. "How do you go to the bathroom?" Very quickly, at break.

4. "Are we in Ohio yet?" Not yet. A good while yet.

3. "Can I pay?" A little hand comes out the back window holding the bills, and Dad lets go of them one at a time. That's my favorite thing that happens in this booth.

2. "Do you know my grandma?" Once in a while, the answer is yes.

1. "Do you want a french fry?" No thank you, hon. But that's the nicest offer I've had all night.

10. His name is Calvin. I knew him for three years as "the peach man" before I found out.

9. He hauls produce up from Georgia, and every August he brings the last load of peaches through on the way north.

8. He comes through Booth 3 between nine and ten at night. Not Booth 2. Not Booth 4. He waits.

7. He flashes his lights twice coming down the ramp so I know it's him.

6. The peaches are always in the same kind of paper bag, folded over twice at the top.

5. He has pictures of his grandkids taped all across his dashboard. There are eight now. There were two when he started.

4. The year he was late, 1994, I worried for three days. He'd had a breakdown in Virginia. The peaches were a little soft that year. They were still the best I ever had.

3. He has never once let me pay him for them.

2. Ruben has started waiting up the night the peaches come. He says it's to carry the bag.

1. Every year, he takes his change, says "See you next August, Barb," and pulls away. And every year, so far, he has.