The Farm Stand

As we rode along the clean pristine road in the Mohawk Valley of upstate New York I saw a farm stand up ahead. Slowing down to stop I found that it was unattended.

The counter of the old grey weathered structure was covered with the farmer’s bounty of beautiful vegetables including bright red tomatoes, canary yellow corn, deep green zucchini and brightly colored carrots of every hue. Purple grapes like stained glass globes rested in a basket to the side. My mouth watered in anticipation of the juicy jewels. This beautiful abundance of produce was offset by the weathered old farm stand with its rusty nails hiding below the surface and a herd of splinters lying in wait for the unobservant customer. On the right hand side a pile of paper bags sat with an oval rock holding them in place. A little sign taped on a masons jar read, $2 A BAG. HELP YOURSELF AND THANK YOU FOR YOUR PATRONAGE!

Wow I was impressed. THE HONOR SYSTEM! I had read about it in my 1953 edition of the BOY SCOUTS of AMERICA HANDBOOK, which had kept me on the straight and narrow in youth, but I had never actually seen it in practice! You had to take your hat off to our rural cousins, who had somehow managed to keep their innocence in this modern age of corruption and dishonor. Both the faith of the farmer and the honesty of his customers were commendable and awe inspiring to a jaded New York City resident.

I took two bags from beneath the smooth oval rock and filled them with vegetables and fruit. Stuffing $4 Into the masons jar and replacing the lid, the New Yorker in me wondered if the the cash would last until the farmer’s return. This thought led me to imagine a similar scenario in New York City.

Dylan’s Candy Bar on 60^th street and 3^rd Avenue had closed up for the day at noon; Ms. Dylan (the daughter of Ralph Lauren) had something to attend to. Before she left for the day, a folding table was set up against the front of the store and upon it Ms.Dylan piled delicious treats of every description. With the candy, a pile of small brown paper bags were placed with an oval rock and a masons jar to put bills into. A sign was taped to the jar which read, $20. A BAG. PLEASE HELP YOURSELF AND THANK YOU FOR YOUR PATRONAGE! Within minutes the table began to receive attention. People stood in amazement looking for a guard or The Candid Camera crew. Not seeing anyone, accountants, secretaries, meter maids and bike messengers each swiped a piece or two of candy. A homeless man and an Amazon were struggling over a bag of Sour Patch Kids. The Amazon was attempting to strangle the man with a rope of candy shoestring laces, yelling “You let go of that you dirty S.O.B”

“Who is you the Queen of England?” retorted the homeless man while beating her mercilessly with a large thick candy cane.

Gum drops, mints and miscellaneous treats flew hither and thither while weaponized M&M shrapnel assaulted the assembled crowd of onlookers, a tragedy for those of us with an affection for confection! Simultaneously, a sweet little old lady stuck the masons jar in her shopping bag hustling away as fast as her little legs would carry her, retaining the oval rock to fight off would be assailants. A young child stood motionless, her mouth filled to overflowing with billowy clouds of cotton candy like a chipmunk collecting nuts for the winter. Sea sprays of Swedish fish showered all assembled while a sparrow balanced himself on a jawbreaker fluttering its wings in a feeble attempt to lift the heavy payload like a seal in some aquatic performance. A Multicolored avalanche of gum balls descended on the crowd and within ten minutes the table had been almost picked clean like an unfortunate Agouti wading into a lake filled with piranhas. Meanwhile a construction worker unceremoniously folded up and removed the table, disappearing into the crowd and a rat scampered around picking up the last remnants of candy, then skipping off in delight with his bounty.

By 12:20 PM there was no trace left of Ms. Dylan’s enterprise.

So much for the honor system…at least in New York City.

Jim

July 2019

Little Dancer

While the afternoon sunshine flooded through the big picture window in the living room, my mother wanted an answer to a question that was too painfully embarrassing for me to answer.

            “Tell me why you don’t want to go to Miss Pollock anymore.  You always loved dancing school.”

The oil paintings hanging there were colorfully rich and vivid ballet scenes.  They were graceful and fluid.  They moved to the music in my head.

“Nothing happened Mom.  I just don’t want to go.  Besides I’d rather play outside and ride my bike.”

 “Darling are you sure?  You are such a good dancer.”

Classical music played on the radio from early morning to early evening.  It was even the background for the cartoons I used to watch.  I can still hear the famous Blue Danube waltz as the ducks swim merrily along the banks of Vienna’s famous river. 

“No I’m not.  You just think that because you’re my mother.  I stink.”

She was preparing my favorite meal:  Wild rice, lamb chops and broccoli. 

“Not true at all.  Let’s see how you feel next week.”

I never would be able to tell her why I no longer wanted to take dance lessons.  I wanted to forget the whole thing, bury it someplace deep and stuff a boulder on top so it could never come out.  So many years after the incident, I rolled the stone away and unearthed it.  It still evokes some sadness in me but more ire than melancholy with each retelling. 

When I was just six or seven years old my mother invited my best friend and her mother to my dance recital.  Our relationship had quite a bit of sibling rivalry. In the days that followed we were in her backyard pool.  Her mother, now sitting in an Adirondack chair in front of me, was reading a newspaper. 

We were having one of our usual childish disagreements when my little friend shared with me her mother’s opinion of my performance in the recital.  She reported with delight how her mother had said I was as graceful as an elephant. 

Stunned from that blow, I looked to her mother hoping she would deny it.  Tragically for me at that moment, she said nothing.  Instead she looked at me guiltily, as if caught in the act.

I have no idea what happened next.  I can only recall the emotion and the stinging in the corner of my left eye because I wouldn’t let them see me shed a tear.  They knew their words had pierced me.

Yvonne A.

July 2019

A Child's Desire

What do I want more than anything? It isn't teddy bears, Barbies or clothing. If I could have one wish come true, I would go back home—to the place where I could speak, where I had friends, where I belonged.

Not this place of concrete jails with a teacher that glares at me when I reply, "no se" (I don't know).

Each morning is a death row march not ending in execution but with having my head submerged in sounds without meaning.

I hate it here. I want to go back to the fresh air and smiling people, but I don't have a say.
I know that my wish won't come true. I'm stuck here in the land of unknowns, drowning in a foreign language, alone and without hope.

Liza

June 2019

The Memory Machine

Harry inspected the contraption in front of him. It had to be metal from the way it glimmered in the light. The smooth exterior felt warm to his touch. Which metal?

"It isn't stainless steel," he noted.

"Stainless steel feels cool against the skin," he heard old professor Maroy's grainy voice. "Not because it is cool but because it is a good inductor. It takes your heat into itself."

Alchemy of Metals had been his favorite subject at school. He met Marla there. Marla with her large appetite and small frame. She wasn't much of a cook, so he did the cooking and she did the eating.

"She probably found a better cook," he scoffed as he caressed the machine.

He turned the contraption upside down. It wasn't copper, it lacked the tan orange color and the vibration was off.

"Some metals are man-made and others, like copper, are a gift from nature," professor Maroy purred as he held his copper bar.

Marla had bought Harry a medium-sized copper-lined pan for their eight-month anniversary, "to make your world-famous lasagna." She had always loved his lasagna the best. She would moan in delight as she ate it.

"You should open your own restaurant," she said between bites. "Actually don't, then you'll be too busy to cook for me." She was both selfish and possessive, qualities he admired. He shook the memories back.

"Marla's gone," he sighed.

Harry's arms hurt from holding the machine.

"Osmium," he said and placed the machine down and touched his heavy heart.

Harry shuffled the papers in his pocket until he found the post-its. Then he picked up a pen. When he finished writing he pasted the note next to the machine, “BROKEN”.

He turned his attention to the next contraption. “Time Machine, huh?”

With a smile he sat down inside. If it can’t be forgotten then maybe it can be changed, he thought as he pushed the ON bottom and adjusted the knobs.

Liza

June 2019