nostalgia

Yesterday, I was shopping at a small little market near our house that has the cheapest produce and the best deli. It is sprinkled with vegetables I have never seen before, and little boxes of things I can't pronounce, but if I ever needed to buy grape leaves, I would know where to go.

I was waiting in line for the only open check stand - including the checker and the guy behind the deli counter and the two or three men stocking shelves, there were about ten of us in the shop. Four were in front of me in line, and I was mesmerized by them: a clean-faced mom with dark hair pulled back by an orange and red bandanna had a very new baby snuggled in a sling across her chest. She was so earthy her sling wasn't even held with velcro, but a small brass ring. Two older children wandered around her, creating worlds out of cucumbers and counting coffee beans. She called to her son, "Eli, do you want big carrots today? Why don't you go get a bag!" I almost cried at this little shaggy-haired boy's excitement to get the nice long carrots with the peels still on, versus the plastic bag of precut, prewashed, carrot nubs.

The person in front of them had just put their fruit on the counter. The mom looked at the daughter and said, "Zoe, we have one of those at home, don't we? A nice, big cantaloupe!"
"Yes, it's my favorite!"

As the mom approached the checker, the same one that I see and speak to every time that I come, she (a caucasian woman) called out to her in Spanish and the checker volleyed back. I could tell they were talking about how big the baby had gotten, and how old the checker's children were. I then thought of my own timidity to even offer an "Hola" to this woman I have known for years, for fear she would begin to speak to me in Spanish and I would then have to cut her off and explain "You lost me at buenos dias."

This little family was so beautiful and simple, with their cart full of raw, uncut, unpeeled vegetables. I saw the checker roll two heads of garlic onto the scale, and I thought of my own large tub of minced garlic sitting in my fridge, ready for me at a moment's notice. This family also reminded me of my own childhood, when my mother would make me sundresses, can tomatoes, and make zucchini bread from the zukes in our backyard.

As I got into my little car, I considered what the rest of my day held: I needed to write a 250-word integrative statement for a symposia on child development, send emails to a psychiatrist in Beverly Hills and an occupational therapist in Boston, and write an essay on why the Children's Hospital of Los Angeles should accept me as an intern for their upcoming training year.

I have a professor that has many catch-phrases, but one of his favorites is "All decisions involve loss." As I go further into this professional world, I am realizing that walking through these open doors means the closing of others. I can't get that nose ring and dye my hair blond on a whim, or even wear open-toed shoes to the office no matter how hot it is. However, it does mean that I get to be a part of transformation and healing in other peoples' lives. I need to buy my garlic in a big tub and my carrots already washed so that I am available to do the work I am meant to.

That little family made me happy, though. Happy for good parents and kids that eat their vegetables and little boys that pinch their sisters in the rear-end, not knowing I was watching.

Hoorah for you, little family.

Now, time for another essay...

-l