The Altadena Farmer’s Market – a memory
– Sandy Chang, plot 54
The ninety plus degree San Gabriel Valley summers make outdoor activities rather impossible. People and pets hide in air conditioned rooms or languish the day away in sweaty naps, glorious sunshine admired rather than enjoyed. Humans and creatures alike stir restlessly from inactivity.
To combat idleness, mom and I have begun early evening excursions to our neighborhood farmer’s market with its one vegetable stand, three food trucks, and a handful of artisan stalls consisting of homemade soaps, organic honey, and woven textiles. The market sits sleepily in the cul-de-sac of a small park shaded by mature trees. Local vendors chat amongst themselves like old friends while small children crisscross the sidewalk in kick scooters driving nearby dogs into hysteria.
Mom and I like to sit on a wooden bench under the magnificent canopy of a particularly impressive oak. Watching the crowd with mild interest, we snack on avocado toasts sprinkled with pomegranate seeds, plump Pacific Northwest oysters smothered in horseradish sauce, aromatic sausages with garlic chips, fresh raspberries, lavender ice creams and whatever other specials inspire until bursting with gluttonous joy. Some nights, a band of three played on the island of a tiny roundabout that doubles as a grassy stage.
Most of the time mom and I take in the scenery silently remarking only occasionally on the weather, the ants that persist on forming a line to the crumbs on the ground or kids that fall off of their scooters. A local cutler inside his minimalistic stall adorned with a lone tabletop sharpener shares in our comfortable silence. A young man of few words, he rarely strikes a conversation with market goers but raises his head only when unsolicited customers interrupt his readings. The reticent vendor is a constant fixture at the market, providing his services week after week in quiet solitude.
The way of the knife sharpener resonates with us. Mom has dementia and my caregiving for her, like all family caregivers, has that same existential quality, religiously yet without extraneous recognition, reciprocation, or even the hope of dementia abatement. Rather, seeing that our loved ones are clean, fed, and happy is in itself an anchor to a purposeful existence.
I am lost in thoughts and did not realize that the blistering day has melted away as light bulbs glowed faintly in stall tents. Children on scooters begin to throw tired tantrums as vendors clean up and bid each other goodbyes. I raced to the vegetable stand and grabbed a medley of farmer’s market dainties; bitter melon greens, chives, and watercress just before closing time. The moon hung high as we returned to mom’s nursing home, illuminating the way with an ethereal glow, our joys equally palpable. I tucked mom in bed feeling blessed that we had shared such an enchanted evening.
Written in loving memory on the approaching five-year anniversary of the passing of Mrs. Yueh-Ying Chang, the author’s mother.