Tuesday, July 24, 2012

Market Day

For two weekends in a row, Saturday has been market day. Last weekend I came home from getting groceries and there was a note on my computer from a friend. Her son was playing down the street and a few of us gathered, drank coffee in a 30c degree parking lot, and listened to him, the guitar; the voice. We talked about life, food, the new cook books I just bought, what makes us feel good and our strengths, intuition and future.
This weekend I went to my sisters market. I was home for the weekend and had left my coffee in B’town. So I mixed some Starbucks instant that my mother refuses to drink. I hoped for coffee and a quiet little corner to read Cormac McCarthy and do some writing. Even on weekends I do my morning pages and I sort of expected to be bored. 

The Hub in the Dub was indoors, in a little hall, on a back road. The inside of the hall was made out of polished wood, and the plug -in clock seemed to have stopped working hours ago, but no one had taken it down yet. The bottom floor, where we were is the size of my apartment, plus a kitchen in the back. There were four tables on each side of the hall selling jewelry, lemonade, vegetables, soap, food, art and music.
When I got there a small amount of people were everywhere setting up and organizing, sister Duncan was in the kitchen. She had made two bike trips earlier in the morning to get everything from her apartment to the hall. I helped my parents unload the car and set up vegetables from their garden. I grabbed some coffee which I later described as smut coffee and really began the day.
I had about two sips of smut coffee and there were no inhibitions and no sitting down. There was no time for writing I seemed to talk to everyone, either helping people sell or catching up on some old news, often talking about things that I never share, thank you smut coffee.
At one table was a four year old with his mother. Morgan had short brown hair with dirty blond streaks, an excitement in his eyes, and in his movement. They were selling lemonade for a benefit the next day. It was Morgan’s job to juice the fresh lemons. He climbed up on the wooden chair and leaned over the lemon ½ and put all his body weight on top of the fruit. He used that weight to turn the lemon and juice it. When that was done, and they had enough juice, he decided he was going to be like the artist across the hall and sell his own pictures.  He began to draw dancing robots and man eating plants, eating snails.
A 14 year old boy walked in and I took a second look. There’s something about him I thought. Calm, curly blond hair, orange shirt, I shrugged and kept going. Shortly after that his Mother walked in and I realized it was Dylan and Kenna. I went to school with Kenna and we worked together in the city. I remembered Dylan from 7 years ago.
Dylan was selling homemade jewelry and was playing with his own I Pad during the down time, He owned this calmness, this maturity. He proved he was able to sit in the Hall and take on the responsibility of selling his own crafts.
Then Morgan saw him he stopped drawing, stopped being interested in lemonade. He pulled his chair over beside this Dylan. He was a little plaid, blue shirt, pulling a chair twice as tall as he was between two tables. Morgan watched Dylan play on the computer. Neither said anything, I’m not sure if they even looked at each other. Dylan’s confidence and silence transferred over to Morgan. The two of them, ten years difference sat in each other’s company. Morgan looked over Dylan’s shoulder; the two of them relaxed and comfortable with each other’s company, all trusting, all understanding.
Do they know each other? I asked my Kenna. They met once before she said.
And I wished I could approach people with such confidence, knowing and silence. Silence especially after the smut coffee.

1 comment:

  1. "And I wished I could approach people with such confidence, knowing and silence..."

    You can. Just give yourself permission and remember that it does not matter what the other person might do or say. They are not important, you are.