Poem: Vegetable Bells

Vegetable Bells

A mustached man in a white apron

pushed his four-wheel cart laden with

fresh vegetables and fruits down our street.

I could hear the bell that rang

when he was in our neighborhood

and his deep, practiced voice telling

everyone he had arrived with his produce.

Cucumbers, tomatoes and com

raspberries and oranges

topped his deep bins, full of color.

I asked to ring the bell, as all of us did

But then, he said, when would people know when I was coming?

We all loved to hear the ringing,

more of a clang, really

but what power he held,

drawing dozens of people from their homes.

We had to bring our own sacks

and sometimes a small box

so when he counted out the tomatoes

they wouldn't bruise as we hurried to the kitchen.

Tomatoes tasted good then and I would eat mine.

Com wrapped in tin foil

cooked on the barbeque made me

delighted with warm butter

rolling over the side

and the small plastic com with prongs for our tiny hands.

I would hold tightly as I ate each row

like typewriter keys

and at the end of each row

I could hear his bell.

A cold orange in the summer was our dessert.

Vegetables at Safeway didn't have the flavor

but the new market was down the street and

there every day so you could buy whatever you wanted.

But the only ringing was when the cash register opened

to take my money.

Sure, the clerk smiled but it wasn't the same

as the man with the cart,

his dark arms covered with sweat

as he pushed his treats around the block.

He was proud of his garden,

that he would harvest, put in his truck

with the canopied cart and boxes of just a few choices.

True, there was more at the market

except the flavor of sun ripened oranges.

The green ones harvested early wouldn't spoil,

and could be died orange in case

the skin hadn't become the right color soon enough.

His bell stopped ringing around our homes every week,

and his cart didn't roll down the asphalt any longer.

Then I missed his smile, he seemed so happy

and it made me want to smile

like him, at least until I could get back in the house.

My little sister and I mimicked his voice:

"What can I get you today, little girl?"

Do you have any chocolate? she would ask

and he would laugh because he loved jokes.

But my sister didn't understand because

the grocery store had candy bars.

So she wanted to go to the market

like all her friends

drawn by the colorful wrappers.

His face was topped by a white cap he'd take off to fan himself

as he watched our mothers sort through his choices,

his pockets full of change when they hadn't bought a dollar's worth,

when a pound of berries cost 15 cents, weighed on the scale

that hung near enough so he could make sure it was exactly a pound.

He flattered the housewives with his words

so they would stay and buy more, but he was telling the truth

that Mrs. Thornton was very pretty, and the nicest mother

on the block because she made ice tea for anyone wanting some

after dinner when we played catch in the streets

with the ball from Safeway.