Grand Lakes District is singularly colorful. I see one green swathe of park, one blue sky with a high puffy cloud watching itself in one very beautiful Lake Merritt, and hundreds of flowers, and doggies, and people, oh, MY! This Farmer’s Market adventure is off to a fine start. Now, all I have to do is find a place to park this busy Saturday.
I spy a space on a side street off Grand, make a U-turn, and pull up curbside, behind a woman who is trying to park her car. There’s a driveway in front of her and one behind me. This patch of curb is barely adequate for her long-nosed sedan and my compact SUV. Before she turns off her engine, I stick my head out the window and, in my most cheerful voice, ask, “Helloooo… Excuse me, are you willing to pull forward about six inches?”
She looks back, recognizing the situation for the first time, and pulls forward. It’s as if she has to start all over, again, pulling away from the curb, turning her wheels this way and that, over shooting her driveway, and backing up again. I realize this realignment is no small feat for her. I leave my engine running and get out to guide her into the space, which is conveniently marked with barely visible white lines. She observes a car parked oddly on a landing above a short flight of brick steps. It’s tail pipe juts out over the sidewalk about level with the roof of her car.
“I hope he,” gesturing to the car just to the right of the driveway, “doesn’t roll down onto me.”
“I think he’ll just back down the driveway, the way he got up there. Thanks so much for making space, so both of us can park!”
“That’s OK.”
I make up this story: She’s a widow, seventy- seven years of age, transplanted from New York. She learned to drive late in life, only after moving to California with her husband, whom she loved so much and misses every day.
“Thanks, again! I appreciate your kindness, so we could both park here!” I shout out, while gathering my shopping bags. She minces haltingly across the street. Without turning around, which looks as if it would be painful, she waves her hand and walks through a parking lot. “$7- all day” the sign reads. I feel lucky.
The carnival begins as I cross Grand Avenue. There’s a flow of spring-dressed folks coming toward me with bulging bags of kale, chard, and flowers from the market. Chatting and gesturing, with brought-from-home thermos mugs, (Oakland is Berkeley adjacent and oh so PC!), their faces are animated. People look happy and involved. I miss my honey at my side, but know it’s only temporary, and that he’ll be home from camp Sunday, Another day I’ll bring him adventuring with me in our new city. Soon perhaps, I’ll have new friends with whom to explore.
There’s an assortment of metal bar configurations, stationed throughout the park. They are used for stretching. I cannot resist doing a chin-up. I ask a young man standing under this open triangle of uprights, with bars at various heights, if I may share the space with him. He simply stands, not uttering a word. Perhaps he is newly arrived from Nigeria, is waiting for someone at this tall landmark, and doesn’t understand my question. I choose the medium height one and pull myself up. It feels soooo good to hang-out my back. “Don’t you just love how that feels? Crick Crack, Happy Back!” He just smiles at me wide-eyed. A young couple juggling diaper bags, stroller, and obligatory coffee mugs pause. She says, “Very impressive!”
“It just feels so good,” I blush, feeling conspicuous. Maybe it’s the white hair that makes my chin-up unexpected. It feels good and normal to me.
Her story, I imagine, is that she longs to return to the gym, but her life is full of baby care and making sense of this newness of being an on-call parent 24/7. I like the way Mark says it: “Parenting is a verb, an active verb!” Fortunately, for most of us, there are so many seasons in a life. Mine is the season to do anything I want to do! I’m exhilarated, wanting to run and skip. Instead, I wait chafed by the “Don’t Walk” sign, and by people who ignore it, while I’m being oh, so good and patient. Next time, when I know the traffic patterns better, maybe I’ll just do as I please and run across the street to the beckoning festival of fun under the freeway. (Yes, Mom, I will look both ways!)
My first stop: Organic Kale - both curly and Lacinato - and red chard. So beautiful. So are the gals who do the cash bit, standing behind a table at the head of the two lines. One is tall and femininely cross- dressed; the other is a short woman in men's clothes. As she takes my dollars, I say, “This is my first time here. What do you recommend?”
“In all objectivity, our place is best for greens, but over there,” she gestures to a stall with a wall of blue flats stacked eight feet high, “they have the best strawberries.” Then there’s ‘Goh Hay’ for really fresh eggs,” she points.
“Thanks!”
In fact, the basil at that blue flat stall is the most beautiful I’ve ever seen, and the strawberries have sold-out! I fill my bag with Basil and Cilantro and Parsley, oh, MY! $5 for three bunches… not bad!
I sample carrots at the egg place and buy some of those sweet crunchies along with a dozen mixed-colored eggs from a variety of chickens. Mother and eight year old daughter have just moved their table out of the shifting sun. Mom asks,
“Do you want the tops off the carrots?”
“Do you know some bunnies who will eat the greens?” Later, I will remember that my neighbor Anne has bunnies who might like those carrot tops. Next time.
“I have four bunnies,” says the girl. Mom tilts her head proudly as if to say, “There’s your answer.”
“Sure, in that case,” I say. “Better the bunnies than the compost!”
Betcha these folks live in Napa, it’s green all year round, they have goats, chickens, and pot-belly pigs to keep the bunnies company. Mom and dad are strained and drained because growing and selling their produce is hard work. Brother is with dad now, at another farmer’s market, while the third child, a colicky cry-baby, is home with grandma.
Having sampled raw olives and some divine hand-pressed oil, and having purchased a white sage plant from a biodynamic grower of medicinal herbs, and having engaged in conversations with several genuinely interesting people, I make my way back under the freeway, thanking again the gal at the first stall who told me so nicely where to go.
I get my weight-bearing exercise carrying my groceries up the hill to where I parked. The NY woman’s car is still intact, and the car on the landing is gone!
Next stop is the post office to mail some CDs. The fourth P.O. my GPS finds for me is OPEN! The line is out the door. I chat with a man who IS from Nigeria, actually, and reminds me of my dear Shaman, Henrique, in his white daishiki and beret. I hold his place in line while he retrieves his envelope from the car. I tell him, I’m glad I’m not the only one who sometimes forgetting simple things. We laugh.
He and I and the woman from China, in front of me, of whom I’ve just asked if there is a self-service machine that she knows of, (there is not), all become captive audience for a Pilipino gentleman ahead, leaning his elbows on his walker, and telling us about all his injuries as former postal worker, and as a former soldier.
Facts may be stranger, or more interesting than fiction! Or not. Either way, it’s fun to Practice Story.
