A little journey into nostalgia today. When I was a kid, I used to look forward to Saturday because that was the day my father took us to the Market Garden. It was an exciting place full of all kinds of wonderful smells and sounds. It was one of the biggest buildings in our city then, with what appeared to me to be miles of low counters stuffed with fresh vegetables, fruit, homemade candy, jars of preserves, boxes of honeycomb, flowers, both real and artificial, fresh killed turkeys and geese with their heads neatly wrapped in brown paper, and thousands of other things to tempt the shoppers. Behind each booth stood a contingent of farmers-turned -merchants. The ladies were always huge and wore colorful scarves wrapped around their heads and the gentleman wore large mustaches curled up at the ends. Most of these good souls were from Europe and as we passed by each stall, we'd hear animated conversation in twenty different tongues. The Market Garden was sort of a roofed-in year-round country fair, and to me it was always exciting and friendly. I remember how we’d always take a walk through the parking area, were ancient trucks or teams of horses would be tied up awaiting completion of the day as business inside. Along side many of the wagons we’d find wooden boxes containing small puppies or kittens or live foul, and every week we’d beg father for a pup, and every week he say "Maybe next Saturday". The old Market still stands in my town but there is talk of tearing it down. Those wonderful merchants have been sort of crowded out and frankly, I think we are a little poorer for it. The Market always reminded me, even as a kid, that we do indeed spring from the soil, live by it, and will ultimately return to it. I'd be sorry to see it go.
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