1977 Feature Story

    In my Junior year of College, at what is today St John Fisher University, I was given an assignment to write a feature story. At that time I had been working for a flower retailer who employed me on Saturdays to take surplus flowers to the Rochester (NY) public market to sell. So here was my report on 30 July 1977. I got a grade of B/B+ on it. Tough grader! 

Market Impressions '77

 "Nice apples, nice apples here!" an old man chants over his eight-month old produce.

"How are the hen fruit today Dave?" asks a customer of the egg man.

"Look at the size of that hanging basket!" exclaims a lady pointing at a amazon vine. 

The Rochester Public Market on North Union Street is a grand profusion of people. Two long open sheds are the main business centers on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday mornings. Now under construction is a third enclosed shed that is scheduled for completion by winter. 

But for now, behind the trucks at the open air market, two men meet: "Hi there! Hey listen, you wanna buy a tax-free bond?"

A hot dog vender tinkles his bell. The enticing smell of fresh roast peanuts drifts over the sheds. 

Sellers can rent a stall with ten feet of sidewalk frontage for $35 a month, if they can find empty one.

A quiet man standing alone among his baseball bat-sized squash is greeted by a friend, "So this is where they're doing all the business this morning." He smiles. 

"Only a dollar on a bushel of beans, how 'bout it lady?"

The farmer said corn was 50¢ a dozen because it is so old it could collect social security.

Dispelling the myth that men are not long winded talkers, two men discuss at length the changing face of the market: "It's not like it used to be." The other man nods in agreement. Still, one cannot imagine it being any busier.

"Hey, I even sell mayonnaise!"

"Lettuce! Six heads for a buck!"

If you need a live chicken, duck, rabbit, or goat, you can find it at 280 North Union Street. If your tastes run more to the exotic, there are tropical plants, carob cookies, daggers, fresh caught sunfish, wind chimes, and statues of lions.

For the grocery shopper there is a nearly unlimited selection --

-nectarines, 2 lbs. for $1

-large eggs, a dozen for 85¢

-American cheese, 1 lb. for $1

-English muffins, six for 20¢

-cabbage, three heads for 50¢

A fruit vendor is asked about his cheap grapes. "People don't care about quality here, all they want to know is how cheap it is."

 He turns away. "Grapes! 3lbs. for a dollar!"

"I can tell he don't like corn," said a Penfield farmer about a little boy who was sizing him up.

How?

"Because he's chewing gum -- can't eat corn while you're chewing gum."

The little boy is frightened away, but his mother buys a dozen ears anyway.

"Hey old man, what d'ya say?" echoes through the morning. The sparrows chirp in the rafters.

"Green Peppers 10¢ -- only a few thousand left!"

Some of the younger venders gather and speculate on the wealth of the old men. "Geez, he's got so-o-o much money! But man, he's tighter than the bark on a tree."

At nearly noon, when the venders pockets are bulging with bills, a big husky man comes through the markets flashing his fingers full of rings and a remarkable assortment of diamond watches and necklaces. He opens a velvety box in front of one of the men. But the prospective customer turns away. The big man pursues a few steps, "Hey! What d'ya need boss man?" 

The boss man quickly turns and answers, "Money! That's what I need, money!"

The big man continues on his way, unruffled. 

Since most of the sellers arrived by 6 AM, by noon the signs of weariness are plain to see: cracking voices, extensive yawns, more sitting down between sales. And it may be a long ride home for some of the farmers. Ontario, Sodus, Batavia, and Phelps all contribute to the melting pot. And when they get home, there is more corn to be picked, hogs to be fed, cows to be milked. 

"It wasn't too good today" said a small wrinkled man as he tenderly packed up his basil plants. "Next week will be better." 

1849

In 1971 I was a huge admirer of Canada and all things Canadian. All their wide open spaces were very attractive to a teenager suffocating in a dying industrial city in the eastern US. I bought an LP (a long playing vinyl album for those unfamiliar with the term) produced by a jazz-rock fusion group (out of Toronto, Ontario, Canada) called Lighthouse. The Number One hit from the album was titled "One Fine Morning". Thank you Skip Prokop for such a joyful and uplifting 5 minutes 11 seconds! "All the universe will smile on us."

Another song on the album was less ebullient. "1849" is a tale of the gold fever which guided the hopes of 400 people in 61 wagons heading to California. Those adventurers set out in confidence "that their fortunes would appear." When I traveled west in 1988 it was less rustic and I followed paved roads, not fur trapper trails. The song warned of the cost of chasing riches. "No one thought their greed for gold would change their lives that way." I wasn't seeking gold in Arizona, unless wide open spaces was my gold. 

Those seekers in 1849 soon found out that dreams must change. I never became the great long distance endurance horse race rider in the Arizona sun that I envisioned.

Instead I found fulfillment in just being in God's creation. I loved the mountains and the deserts. Those wide open spaces filled our years with adventure and appreciation.

It's been 3 years since I lost my companion. The song lyrics describe a pretty dress for Sarah, later used to bury her sister Fay. My sweetheart, my husband, was buried in camouflage hunting clothes under the desert sun. There is loss across the years whether you stay put or challenge the world someplace new.

The song ends with a refrain: "A promised land in 1849." There's toil and pain everywhere, no escaping that. But everywhere I place my foot is a promised land to me from my God.

Incident at the Daisy Belle Saloon

 Way, way back in 1970, I wrote a short cowboy tale for English III, 10th grade, chock full of tired motifs or recurring themes from Westerns I'd likely watched. I was influenced by Roy Rogers and Bonanza!  It doesn't make a whole lot of sense (give me a break, I was just 16) but here you go for your Old West Days enjoyment. 

    It was a long dusty ride. So I wandered into the Daisy Belle Saloon and ordered myself a tall, cold beer. That first gulp tasted mighty fine. I noticed the muddy smudge I left on the glass. Then I looked up at the frightful reflection I made in the mirror behind the bar. Five days growth of beard and dirt grinned back at me.

    Then it occurred to me to check my pistol since strangers in town could be mistaken for anybody who ever had their picture on a wanted poster. The gun was clean as a whistle but I was running low on ammo. I took another gulp out of the glass, then realized something odd was going on. The bartender had stopped drying the glass he was holding and was looking rather intently toward the door. I looked up to the mirror because I was too darn tired to turn around. A man stood silhouetted in the doorway. His manner was not too friendly. In fact, he was ready to draw! A hush settled over the barroom. I began to wonder if that dude might have seen me bump off that old man in Stevetown and had come after me. My fears were soon alleviated when the mysterious man drew and shot the bartender full of lead.

    As I learned later, the Daisy Belle was a union men only saloon. It seems this Virginny boy didn't really appreciate that because the Daisy Belle was the only bar in town. So I retrieved my nickel for the beer and left the dizzy Daisy Belle for safer country. 

A Farewell To Arms 1971

 This has nothing to do with the Double Barrel Ranch, but it's my blog. (Not following the rules again.) 

 When I was 17 years old, I had to write a critique of "The Style" of a book we had read for 12th grade English class. Even at this age, my iconoclastic tendencies were apparent as I'm sure that 99% of my fellow students were writing approvingly of the famous novel's presentation. I begged to differ:

2 December 1971 "The Style"

"The characters in A Farewell To Arms by Ernest Hemingway are not very active. There are many pages devoted to how Frederic Henry did nothing. How he spent his time in the hospital, how he did nothing in Montreux, how he did nothing while waiting for Catherine to have the baby, etc. There was a lack of action in the book. And there doesn't seem to be much of a reason behind the book, other than to tell a nice (or not so nice) story. There should have been more life to the the novel. Less conversation and more description would also help. Hemingway's style seems to be to let the reader guess who is talking and what the listeners think of the speaker's words. Very seldom did he use the words "Catherine asked" or other identifying and descriptive phrases. Also I searched and searched and I was unable to discover the fate of Barto, one of the guys with the ambulances. He just disappeared from the pages without a word. This is kind of ridiculous. If his style includes such mistakes then he should never have been published. Not once does the book mention anyone's age. His style does not take into account any facts. What year is it? Your guess is as good as mine. 

When writing is vague and uncertain and the story line is weak (the weak love affair), it is boring. If it didn't have a war going on with a threat of danger, the novel just wouldn't hold water. 

A lot of symbolism will escape most people so it is better to be straightforward and be sure the reader understands. That, I believe, is the main object of a novel - to get something across. And if it is vague, shrouded in symbolism, full of guesswork, contains mistakes, and is spotty in action - then it needs a lot of work. I haven't the faintest idea why the book sold."

The teacher's notes on my critique are interesting. She asked why it was important to know people's ages? Why was the year important? People disappear from our life and we never know what happened to them happens in real life. She said maybe I couldn't grasp the story line? And perhaps I didn't know why the book sold because I just didn't appreciate it? Umm, yes?

I guess today, 53 years later, and having never read another work by Ernest Hemingway...I will have to say that the style of including character ages, year, stories with things resolved are all important to me. Is it a teenager or a 40 year old? Is it WW1 or WW2? And to have a meaningful conclusion to a story, etc. are all important to me. The assignment was to critique the style not to highly praise the best selling author like a million others have done. There was no grade indicated on the paper. Today I would have explained that appreciation of "style" is subjective. Maybe I should have left out the last sentence saying I couldn't understand why the book was ever sold? Yes, that was maybe a bit over the top. But give me a break, I was 17...and a budding iconoclast!

As the Petals Fall

 This has been a time of change here on the ranch. After my house was stunningly painted, I got a new sliding glass door and then 4 new windows. The new glass is double pane and has tint to reduce solar gain through it. The previous glass was single pane; you could get sunburn through it! This is nice tight little house now. 

 Anyway I got the brick for laying a wall behind my wood burning stove. The wood burner is just for ambiance or a power failure. I’m not trying to heat my house all winter in the desert with wood. It is possible because of the forests on our mountains, but for me at this time, eh, it’s ambiance.

Winter has been seasonably cold and my natural gas bill reflects that. It’s nothing like the northern climates though. And I don’t heat my house to bikini temperatures. Remember I’m the one who winter swims.

Speaking of swimming - the local gym with the indoor pool saw me the other week. I haven’t been in my 40ºF pool since early this month. I really should…

My large pot of geraniums has continued to flourish. Pink and deep red flowers. I carry in outdoors in the morning and inside at night. The colorful flower petals drift off on the floor. It makes me smile, like when they throw flowers on the path of the bride going to the altar to be joined to her beloved. It’s just geraniums in my hallway, but it just seems more significant. Like being blessed by nature. I’m such a romantic.