February 9, 2013
To my brother, Tony, the
youngest of nine. I hope you had a fabulous day with the family. I am sorry I
was not able to talk with you directly to offer you a personal message. HAPPY
BIRTHDAY!
A massive gent in a blue
apron officiated the weighing in of vegetables and fruits, rapidly adding the value
of sacks and providing change back with a gigantic smile. The sweet smell of
green, gorgeous piles of crisp produce from the farmers covered the space under
the wide tent. This early Saturday at the Farmers Market was bleary yet rich
with life.
Later in the day at the Brechdog
flea market that began as a disappointing single drab pile of mish mash items
and gradually absorbed most of the green space available on the city block. Exceedingly
short shorts, blinding skirts, bell bottomed slacks, lightweight waist tugging jackets,
disappointingly small shoes, glittery accessories and ancient dogs that wandered
underfoot caught the passerby’ attention.
Men dressed in drag, big
hair, butt hugging clownish pants, hi-rise sandals and bigger than life make-up
strolled the streets shrieking something about “Carnaval” and shuffled by
gyrating the samba. Lively music entranced the growing number of shoppers as
everyone enthusiastically dug thru the cardboard boxes for treasures. The rain
started just as I left the area with a workable piece of luggage and a few unusual
finds.
Pipo has been shadowing me
since my return. I suppose since I fill his bowl twice a day, accompany him to
the beach each morning, comb through his scruffy fur for fleas and secure him
by the collar when the garage door opens and closes he thinks I belong to him. I
may have to Skype him upon my return to the States.
I hope all of my friends in
Boston are
safe. I am thinking of you today.
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