| In this column I am hanging out with Peach-girl at the farmers market trying to find the answers to life's toughest questions. Um. Take my word for it. Sometimes you have to make up the answers... | web.jpg) |
Living the Life of Holly
By Holly Winter
Diplomat for Foreign Students
“
I’ll bet anything you’re from Scotland!” The customer
said, brightly.
“No.” Came the polite, accented reply.
“Ireland?” “Wales?” “Must be Australia.”
A try at a giggle. “Nope. Not Australia.”
The woman in the large house dress stepped back. “I know. New Zealand!”
I was getting tired of waiting to buy my produce. “Why don’t you ask her if she’s from London?”
The customer took my hint. “Are you from London?”
“I am.” She smiled. “And your cherries will cost you two dollars, twenty five please.
“Oh. I love guessing accents.” The woman gushed. “And, I’m getting so much better at it.”
“Thanks for the save.” The girl said after the customer left. “Commenting on my origin seems to be America’s favorite game.”
“How long have you been in the states?” I laughed as I searched for peaches.
“One week.” She smiled. “I’m working for the summer through an international exchange program called BUNAC.” She absentmindedly picked out three perfect peaches for me.
“You volunteered to sell peaches?” I asked, incredulously.
“Sure did.” She laughed. “I should be able to save most of what I make for my last year of college.”
“This’s hard work, Peach-girl.” I said, spying the big truck she had to drive and the boxes and boxes of produce that she had to load and unload. I like traveling for vacation. Um. Work when I arrive? Um. No.
“It’s tough work.” She shrugged. “As long as I’m getting paid I don’t much care.”
I sighed. I was getting old. I could tell. The idea of being shipped off to a foreign country so I could drive a big produce truck around a big city was no longer my idea of an interesting summer vacation.
“That will be two dollars twenty five.” She said as she tied the bag closed. “Tomorrow is my very first day off. I’m going to sleep in, then find my way into Denver. I’m ready to get lost in the big city.”
“I’m great at finding lost. I’ll take you to lunch.” I insisted.
“Really? Oh. Please. That would be great!”
I traveled through Europe back in my college days with some loose change in my shoe. You wouldn’t believe how many people took me under their wing and made sure I had a good time. It was my turn to repay the debt.
Each week on her day off I would pick Peach-girl up and take her on another adventure. The Boulder Falls. A baseball game. My favorite Jazz café. Larimer Square. A barbecue at a friend’s house. A Goodwill store so she could buy a new/old dress that later busted open during a date. (He didn’t mind.)
But my favorite time spent with Peach-girl was hanging out with her at the Sunday Farmer’s Market. I would eat fruit and chat with customers while she worked. Occasionally I would offer my advice on the tougher questions.
“How do I get rid of fruit flies?” One woman asked.
“Eat all the fruit on day one.” I reasoned, biting into a yellow plum.
“That won’t work. “I’m single.”
“Ok. Then. Date a man with six children and your fruit flies will be a trophy of the past.”
She laughed.
A woman pushed her way to the front of the line. “I NEED to test one of those yellow plums.” She boomed.
“Sorry.” Peach-girl sweetened. “We don’t give samples.”
The customer shook her head. “Well? What do they taste like?”
“Well.” I said. “The yellow plums taste a little less sweet than purple plums. And the skins are a bit tart.”
“What do they TASTE like?” She asked, impatiently.
“Um. Really. Like a weak purple plum. Ok. Ok. Kind of like a bit of bland watermelon.” I tried.
“What do they TASTE like?” She demanded, raising her voice.
Peach-girl looked at me apologetically. I smiled back as I grabbed a yellow plum and rubbed it onto my shirt. “Ma’am. Are you asking me about the consistency?”
“NO. I’M ASKING YOU WHAT THEY TASTE LIKE.”
I bit into it right in front of her and chewed slowly while gazing upwards. I squinted my eyes as if I were trying to unlock the words to describe the taste of the yellow plum. Oh. Sure. It would be easier to give her a free plum. But. It was way more fun to watch her fume.
I hesitated a moment, taking my time to swallow what I was eating. “Well. I guess. When you really push me for the taste, I have to admit… these plums taste a whole lot like chicken.” I said, digging in for a second bite.
The other customers at the booth erupted into mad laughter as the picky customer huffed off.
“Well done, Holly.” Peach-girl laughed. “She was a bit cheeky, wasn’t she?”
“Wow. Plums that taste like chicken? I’ll take two pounds.”
“Do you know the protein content of those plums?” Another customer joked.
“Oh.” I said. “These chicken plums have more protein than chicken. But. Only if you fry them.”
A middle aged man approached the booth. “I love your accent.”
“Why thank you.” Peach-girl smiled. “I brought it along from London for a summer vacation.”
“I think that you should become a singer here in the states.”
Peach-girl looked at me. I, the sage of all things fruit and vegetables, was at a loss for words.
“Excuse me.” She said ever so politely. “But are you suggesting that I should become a singer because I have an accent?”
“Yes!” He said. “You would be like Paul McCartney and John Lennon. I would buy all of your records and make all of my friends buy them too.”
“So you think that I could sing simply because I have an accent?” She turned to me for support. I smiled encouragingly.
“You would be famous!” He insisted.
“Thanks.” She said. “That’ll be two dollars fifteen for your peaches.”
“Oh. Darn.” He said. “I thought you’d give me a discount, since I’m going to be the president of your fan club.”
Peach-girl stared at him. She had become immobilized. It had finally happened. She had gotten the one off-the-wall customer comment that paralyzed her.
I stepped in for the save. Consider me a diplomat for visiting foreign students.
I cleared my throat. “Her supporters never get discounts.” I said. “There’s far too many of you.”
“No fair.” He said, handing over his money.
“But. All isn’t lost. You can still show your appreciation for her terrific accent.” I said. “Peach-girl accepts tips.”
“Yes.” She smiled, coming to life again. “I’d love a tip.”
I smiled a nice, big smile and held out my hand. “And I’m the one who holds her money.”
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