The Way We Were

I had a rare treat today. Lunch with my husband in the middle of the day. I only worked until noon and he was able to take a lunch break and meet me, so we sat at an outdoor table in this old harbor town and talked about the differences we've seen and experienced here in pastoral upstate New York.

He was driving to lunch and remarked that he'd followed a garbage truck through the side streets on the way. It was the old fashioned kind. "The old fashioned kind?" I asked. "Yeah" he explained. "You know - with one guy driving and two guys hanging off the back, smoking cigarettes and jumping down every so often to roll the cans over to the big bin in the back, dump them in, hop back up on the truck and bang the side so the driver knows it's ok to move on to the next stop." I looked at him with my head tilted, trying to figure out exactly what he was getting at. What's so weird about that? I mean, that was how we both remembered the garbage trucks when we were growing up...

The more he talked, to deeper the realization hit. This isn't how it's done anymore. Come to think of it, the last couple of neighborhoods we've lived in there was only one guy driving the truck, and it had a hydraulic arm that came out from the side of the truck, grabbed the can, picked it up and dumped it into the bin. One guy. One truck. The only time he had to get out of the truck was if for some reason the person's can was in the wrong spot. Automated. Efficient.

So I was driving home from lunch and decided to stop at a roadside fruit and vegetable stand that I pass each day on my way to and from work. I've seen it multiple times, even promised myself I would stop, then - lost in thought or on my phone (bluetooth of course) would pass it by without even realizing. Today was not that day. I consciously stayed off the phone and stayed focused on my upcoming turn. When I pulled into the drive there was an old man with a white beard and a red flannel shirt resting his hands on top of his cane amidst the tables full of flower and vegetable starts available for purchase. I wondered briefly how many other days he'd sat there just like that. I wondered if this was his routine. His life.

He looked happy enough, and I got out of my truck and smiled, saying hello and engaging in small talk as I perused their offerings. A woman about his age was in the back of the rows tending to another table of flowers and although she looked right at me, she neither smiled nor offered a greeting. She looked tired. Tired of what, I could only guess, but tired just the same. Behind the whitewashed plywood counter was a man in his late twenties in a t-shirt who answered my questions about the shelling peas and gorgeous baskets of ripe tomatoes, while someone else pulled up and began talking to the old man. I couldn't help but overhear their conversation. I had talked about the weather. This man talked to the old man about his recent illness.

"I heard you been going through it. Had quite the scare."

"Yep" The old man nodded.

"But you're gonna be ok now?"

"That's what they tell me. I guess we'll see."

Suddenly, instead of wondering how many days he's sat like that, I wondered how many more he'd be able to. Perhaps whatever was going on with him made him pensive. Perhaps he was doing what he'd always done. I realized with some amount of untraceable regret that I would probably never know the answer to that question.

By the time I was ready to get in my truck, the old man was alone again. He hadn't left his perch. He just nodded and hoped I had a nice rest of my day. I wondered if I would.

It felt good, buying a few fresh fruits and vegetables on my way home. I drove away thrilled with my vine ripened strawberries and beautiful sun drenched tomatoes, my salt potatoes and my shelling peas. The smell of them filled my truck. It was the best fourteen dollars I'd spent in a very long time. Already I was thinking about slicing into one of those beautiful tomatoes and pairing it with fresh mozzarella and some basil from my patio herb garden. I doubt I spent more than ten extra minutes stopping at that fruit stand, but it changed my day, and because it changed my day, it changed my life. It was a small change, but a change just the same.

Then I thought about my usual shopping experiences. Although I love the farmer's markets, more often than not I find myself in the middle of a big box store or warehouse, filling my cart to overflowing and stuffing my cupboards because shopping that way fits my schedule. Sure, I end up with cardboard tomatoes and tart strawberries, but at least it's convenient. Comfortable. Efficient. Lonely...

My shopping experience has become a lot like the new garbage trucks - automated. So has the rest of my life. If I'm not on my phone I'm on my laptop. Life and technology seem inextricably intertwined. But the old man at the fruit stand didn't give a whit about technology. He was just sitting there, watching life go by, waiting for someone to interact with him. It made me stop and think. There are a lot of people out there who would be thrilled if someone took a break from their automated, efficient, technological lifestyles and stopped to say hello. The tomatoes and strawberries were just the bait - a delicious means to the end.

Sometimes our writing gets caught up in the technological tidal wave. It's good once in a while to go back to basics. One guy in a garbage truck may get the job done faster, but at the end of the day he doesn't have anyone to go have a beer with. If I hadn't stopped at the fruit stand today I wouldn't have had anything to write about tonight. Sometimes slowing down is the key to unlocking creativity...

Summer is here, so let me encourage you...

Slow down.

Look around.

Eat a ripe tomato.

And live to write about it!

Madison Richards lives and writes in Central New York. She often shops in big warehouse stores. She occasionally buys tomatoes from an old man in a red flannel shirt. She thinks it would be cool if she could swap those adverbs. She blogs here and there and can be found at The Master's Artist every other Tuesday.

Comments

[Jeanne Damoff]

Love this, Madison. We live in a small Southern town where they still collect garbage the old-fashioned way, and where local farmers stick a sign in their front yard for passing motorists to know when a crop is ready. Last weekend we drove past George's favorite spot to buy peaches, and the sign was up. He'd already passed the driveway when he noticed it, so he pulled onto the highway shoulder, did a U-turn, and went back. At the end of the gravel driveway, an elderly woman sat alone under a tent sheltering tables full of boxed and bagged peaches. Jacob and I stayed in the car, so I didn't overhear their conversation, but the woman looked all business. George bought a peck, loaded it in the back seat, then backed up to turn around. I glanced up just in time to see the woman smiling and waving. Then I noticed Jacob had waved to her first.

Once again I'm rebuked by Jacob's innocent simplicity. How is it we forget that people are made for relationship and community? We each know we crave it, but we still float through much of life locked in a personal bubble, never rubbing shoulders with the people around us, never hearing and entering their stories.

I hope the fresh strawberries were divine. And I hope you get a chance to tell the farmer you thought so.

Love, Jeanne

[susan fish]

Peaches, Jeanne? Peaches?

Your post, Madison, made me stop to watch our garbage truck this morning. I have been very grateful for those guys for a couple of years now, ever since we moved into the house of a former pack rat. Every week, we continue to leave more of her stuff at the curb, and every week they take it away.

The other evening, we drove by a farm stand where bouquets of flowers were left alone, along with a tin can you could put money into. My kids wondered about the wisdom of this, but I loved it.

[Madison Richards]

Jeanne and Susan,

I love that there are places like this left in the world, where people are still just people and it doesn't take a latte to make a person smile. I've spent too much of my life in and around big cities, and it's made me forget the perfection of a ripe strawberry and a sunny smile...sure am glad to know folks like you are out there too, and we can all just keep it simple sometimes!

Love,
Madison