“for many a year his regular custom . . .”

June 28, 2006 | Filed Under ordinary 

the local farmer’s market tossed a cabbage through the air thus commencing a summer of local produce available for purchase in the haze of saturday mornings. the amish girls sold bread and candy. a horrific van with peeling headliner and spring-exposed seats backed up to the sidewalk and arranged jars of honey on a card table. the man who sold us these delicious onions and cute round zucchini was freshly showered and shaved and was dapper in a pin-striped shirt. his wife, who most assuredly pin-curls, measured out the snap peas by the handful, which held sweet surprises for henry and jude when they realized that pods hold peas.

at the table next to theirs, in stark contrast, sat a shining, kneesocked, unshowered man in a rocking lawn chair. the fist sized crucifix he wore hung, swung over his fantastic vintage sparkling western shirt. one can only hope to be at goodwill the day his closet is donated in a box. he wore a cowboy hat and the air held a cloud of his exhale as he lit another bent cigarette pulled from his front pocket.

soon there will be tomatoes and sweet corn to buy from the ancient people who park their truck in the tall, itchy grass across from the bowling alley every day of the week. the man will snap unintelligibly at the tan and wrinkled woman, who is in unfortunate need of support beneath her threadbare t-shirt. he will smoke a cigar and will talk about their early morning start at 3:30 a.m. we will come home and, after shucking and boiling and slicing we will salt and pepper and butter and will require many napkins. later, ernie will be sure to wash his beard and we will all floss before bed.

the last of afternoons, the evening hours, for many a year his regular custom, in his great arm chair by the window seated . . .

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