Farmers' Market

The Danville Farmers' Market can be brutal, especially if you're trying to get to the the peaches or the tomatoes in high season.  The corn, thank goodness, has a more-or-less organized line, courtesy of the corn farmers whom, I suspect, got tired of witnessing the suburban brutality.  

And crowded.  I've tried waiting patiently for my turn, and been elbowed out by sweet looking grannies with murderous looks in their eyes.  By daddies who think they're still linebackers and we are the opposing team, by aggressive moms swinging a baby from one hip and a huge purse from the other.  And the throng doesn't clear out until only shriveled bits of fruit remain.  The vultures have nothing on the folks at the Farmers' Market.

So I've learned to just wade in and take my chances.  And one morning, reaching for a ripe heirloom tomato, having just taken yet another elbow in the stomach - oof - I heard a familiar voice.

"Oh. My. God!  What are you doing here?  Your parole officer was just looking for you!  And girlfriend, how did you get that ankle bracelet off?!?"

All of a sudden I had the tomatoes to myself.  Which would have been great if I hadn't been laughing so hard I was doubled over.  Hard to grab a tomato when you're holding on to your sides.

It was my friend.  My adorable, hysterically funny, take-no-prisoners friend.  

I suspect the watching crowds thought she was brave to hug an obvious fugitive from justice.  We laughed, we talked, we told stories.  She showed me her favorite farmers - not the obvious crowded ones, but the lavender lady in the corner and the shy man with just a few apricots, so flavorful with each bite the juice ran down your chin, and memories from childhood came flooding back.

She is a fabulous story teller.  Get her to tell you about picking lemons in Israel.   In a Lily Pulitzer dress.  Priceless.  The story, not the dress.   She is the friend I call when I'm having a great day - she will laugh with me.  She is the friend I call when I am melting into tears and the world seems mean.

Everyone needs a friend like this in their life.  I am privileged to have the original.  Lucky me.

Bringing the mountain

My friend has white mulberries in her garden, and huge peach trees she has raised from seed.  Lemons and kumquats, figs and pomegranates, a glasshouse full of seedlings ready to plant out.  And a motorized scooter to get around her garden.  She used to come walk around my garden, but no more. When I go for tea her house is full of lilacs or roses, lilies or iris, and she always asks me "How is your garden?"  How do you answer that? A garden is never just one way.  But this spring my garden is the best it has ever been.

So last week I took my garden to her.  I brought her a small bouquet of what's blooming now, and my laptop with photos of my garden.

The spanish bluebells came from my friend Sylvia - her garden is a sheet of blue in spring.  Mine are more numerous each year, and I finally have enough to share.

The columbines came from Carol.   I can feel her gentle presence when they bloom.  I miss her.

I don't remember who first told me they got their name from the ring of doves kissing.  Remember your Latin? 

Rhododendrons light up the shade, and caress me with a faint spiciness as I brush past.  They will be sticky and brown soon, and the stickiness will coat my fingers as I snap off the endless spent flowers, but they're worth it.

I showed her the old apple tree just budding,

and the forget-me-nots that stick to your socks.  My mom says when that happens the best thing to do is plant your socks.  She's right, the seeds never come off.

There are bright bergenias with leaves like glossy cabbage.  A granny plant, very out of fashion.  Too bad. I love it.

The first roses of the year are opening outside the bathroom window among the spent peach blossoms, where it is sunniest.  When she saw this she said "Climbing Peace!  That is my favorite rose!"  When a few more have opened I will take her armfuls.

If you can't bring your friend to your garden, get out your camera and your laptop, and bring your garden to visit your friend.  And don't forget the bouquet, for no matter how small, a bouquet gathered by your hand from your garden will always speak of love.