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Wednesday, April 30, 2014


I was at a ginormous farmers market with my partner. I purchased food at a vendor, and for some reason I wrote this story about her, and us.
The gal of river tales spooling around Interstate-5, singing a song for the entertainment of customers, and perhaps to increase her tip jar.  To regale and entice as people ordered Mediterranean fare at a large outdoor community market.  It was women primarily being served-- at this moment, one from California, one from Washington.  Sacramento and Poulsbo, specifically.  River differences were discussed... the Willamette, Columbia, Mississippi.   Tale weavery of flow and slow sleepy hot rivers that bubble mercury pools when digging on the shoreline. Mississippi. Toxic to the hilt, but the community swimming hole nonetheless.  There was a comparison of rivers. Rivers further west don't catch on fire.  A gentle navigating of ferocious reactionary opinion.   Politics. Left, right, up, down.  The performer apologized and meant no insult as to her correction to liberal thought, thoughtfully though, and not to the actual woman who was being corrected. Apologies for words, not for thoughts.
Then, she faced the Washington  woman waiting her turn to pay for food, relatively uninvolved in the whole.  Once more the passive indirect is spoken.  Woman was gregarious and rolled with it as she took money. Recognized importance of unimportance. 

 Money was exchanged for food, talked more of rivers. Banter.  A man walks up, grabs fork from the jar and Washington woman's plate of food on the counter.  Mississippi river gal pauses in front of woman, watching man- "Oh! I couldn't see you together."                                        Ah, dear, but we are.


Mae said...


Blue Shoe Farm said...

What are you doing on here???

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