Farmers' Market

Saturday was a glorious morning. The Farmers' Market was a quiet bustle of early visitors. The friendly greetings were passing back and forth between old friends, and customers were already carting flats of fruit and bags of produce to their cars. My goal was two-fold: the Farmers' Market was on Mom's short list of places she wanted to visit, and I have a dinner party coming up for my daughter's high school graduation celebration. Mom was stopped in her tracks by the fragrant plucots and peaches, and I headed off to find the baskets, the honey and the lavender. We met up at the cheese booth, both spending more than we ever imagined on cheese that can only be described as divine. We were so happy to be there.

I got my Coloma Gold honey, my bunch of lavender, and I was in the midst of buying some glorious poppy plants from an elderly gentleman who attends our church, when I suddenly wondered how Mom was doing. I saw her leaning against a low brick wall. Little bells of alert starting going off in my mind, and I quickly put my things in the car and came back to get her.

By the time I got to her she was extremely weak. I asked if I should get the car, but she wanted to walk. After we crossed the narrow street, however, she knew she couldn't do it. I ran as fast I could to the van, raced back for her, and there she was, on the ground. Her legs got too weak and could not hold her. With the help of my daughter and two kind strangers, we got her into the van and slowly drove home. My heart was racing, my hands were shaking. It was foolish to take such an outing so soon after she came home from the hospital. She should have known, I should have known, that it would be too much. At most, a walk to the fruit stand for ambrosia-like apricots and an assisted walk back to the van would have been enough. She could have sat in the car, watching the herbs and babies and crates of strawberries go by and been perfectly happy. Instead, we overdid it and got a huge wake-up call.

We came home and got Mom settled in for some food and rest. She slept, ate and got her strength and good cheer back. My daughter and I had to talk through the experience, both of us feeling like failures and needing reassurance that we are doing the best we can and learning as we go. This is a time when offering grace to one another is going to become a habit. Fortunately, Mom is really good at that, so we can learn from the expert.

After that we planted in the front beds, watching colorful beauty begin to dazzle in long-forgotten corners. We worked until we were sore and dirty, then came in to wash up and relax. We sliced our amazing cheese (it looked just like a melon), added some French bread, and then watched Pride and Prejudice all.the.way.through.to.the.very.last.kiss. Perfect.

The rhythm of Saturday, the chores and the relaxation, took the churning of fear and worry and soothed our rough edges. It ended up being a deeply satisfying day. The garden is beautiful, the cheese a delicious memory, and the lessons learned somehow softened yet never to be forgotten.