“Some days run like a bad movie, starting at 6 am, when the cat knocks something off the desk, indicating he needs to be let out. I lay back down, agitated by the feeling of having just been somewhere else. Who was I with? What was I doing? This is my standard dream recall protocol. Suddenly I remember. The snow, the car broken down, the truck stuck miles away on a different side of town, my children, not understanding the hopelessness I feel. The oddly comforting appearance of my old riding instructor, who was anything but sympathetic. Maybe it’s better to wake up, rather than cry & wail, and be stripped bare in front of one of the many zombie-like authority figures, living in my psyche. I throw off the blankets, glance at the clock, panic, and begin to scramble, thinking about my impending oil & tire change appointment. Where are my gardening tools? Was I crazy to throw in a dump run on top of a work day? The truck bed is loaded down with particle board, trashed plastic sheeting, pressure treated lumber scraps and discarded roofing metal. As if from the heavens, the voice of Helen Mirren comes, unbidden: “You’ve got this, Viking warrior priestess!”. Well, that I may have made up. But I definitely feel 50/50 I’m half crazy, half inspired. It could be what she was trying to describe. I do like to pack a lot into a day. Which is why I’m antsy, waiting for my truck to be done, and shooting straight from the hip, by the time I get to the Paris Farmer’s Union But charging into a store doesn’t always account for the customer in front of you who is elderly, or time consuming. You have to make it work, & be gracious. By the time I got to the counter, the owner had left to help the elderly person load their car. Another guy showed up at the counter, looking a bit disoriented. “I was just dropping by,” he said. I wasn’t exactly sure what that meant, in a store. He was just being friendly? Selling stuff if no one else was around? It kind of intrigued me. I liked his look. Probably a farmer, about my age, long blond hair and a beard. “I need three 50 lb. bags of Pro Gro. And do you have Pro Holly?” He knew the fertilizer I was talking about, and materialized a walkie talkie, into which he aimed his sparse commentary, then reported back. “We have the Pro Holly in 25 lb bags”, he said. Another cashier person wandered back into the scene. “Can I help you?” she said, “or is he...” I nodded. It was he, and he was getting the job sorted. Later, driving up to the metal quonset hut warehouse, I hoped to see my farmer one more time. Had I merely dreamed him? He seemed to not really exist. My next stop was the Ripton General Store. The sandwich and coffee I’d hoped for, based on the signs advertising those two things out front, did not pan out. “Let me check the coffee”, she said. Shaking the carafe, it was not a slam dunk. Things were empty, and cold. They had no sandwiches without meat. I know, I know. I was still appreciative of the store. It was very welcoming, and quaint, just how I like it. Next stop, Hancock Hotel deli, closed on Tuesdays. Next stop, Sandy’s, not open until Wednesday. My last hope, was the Barnard General store. After looking at the menu I asked the guy behind the deli case. “Do you have a vegetarian sandwich?”. He readily answered, and with a nice tone” “You want “The Sinclair”. His casual confidence thrilled my heart, to the core. I remembered years ago, following up an index card invite, pinned to the store’s free-for-all, all inclusive, bulletin board. “Raspberry plants from Sinclair Lewis’s original garden” the card read, in an almost unintelligible, hand written scrawl. You would have thought it was the man himself, had you not the historic perspective, that the man was long dead. I assented to “The Sinclair”. But that was not the end of it. I sat, reading the local newspaper, with a coffee. He rushed back to me, still behind the ice cream counter, but with a worried look. “We’re out of the avocado spread” he said, a little apologetic. I was the only customer, so he could cater to me this way. “Would you like ... um ... hummus?” Yes, yes, of course, any damn sandwich at this point would be like a long lost relative, getting in touch after years of no contact. I settled back into my paper, shaking out the oversized pages, defining my space, just in case any flatlander was watching. And then, as if in a Rom-Com, the chef came again, scurrying over, in a tizzy. “I’m so sorry, we’re out of tomatoes,” he confessed. “Maybe you have ... lettuce? Be creative! “ I said, clumsily. To be honest, I had been looking forward to the basics: lettuce, tomato, salt, and mayonnaise. But I have learned, it’s best to hope for the best, but expect the worst. How can you lose? I was so hungry, I would have eaten pond scum at this point. “How about olives, onions?” he added, cheerfully, as if we were in an outdoor, Pakistani rug market, and he was generously throwing in an extra. “Yes!” I cried out, as if to reward his lack of vegetables. Well, when I heard the masking tape being ripped, to secure the paper encasing my lunch, I was beyond ecstatic. The cashier gave me five pennies, so that I could pay with a twenty, and get back a five. Once back in my truck, I felt overwhelmed with the joy of personal freedom, having money in my pocket and a sandwich, and a whole days ahead of me, outdoors, on one corner of this amazing planet, that has still not been fully discovered, or destroyed.”
