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Paper-Thin Towns "Live each season as it passes; breathe
the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit ..." Towns we passed along Lake Erie's shoreline consisted of one long skinny street. Sharon called them "paper-thin towns." Fresh produce had been an anomaly in the towns. When we saw a sign advertising a fruit stand we immediately stopped. A bin of cantaloupe caught my eye. I picked one up. "Do you want to eat it right away?" the woman working at the stand asked. "Oh, sometime today," I replied. She took my chosen melon from me and replaced it in the crate. She chose another, held it up to her nose and sniffed its navel. She put it down, picked up a third melon, and repeated the sniffing process. After sampling several, she held one aloft. "This one's the ripest," she declared. It turned out to be succulent. (Once, after we returned from our travels, I tried the fruit woman's method at a local grocery store. I've got to warn you: other customers don't regard you fondly. "I'm checking for ripeness." "Sure, fun boy. Get a room." They thought I was out of my gourd.) Along with the ripe cantaloupe, we bought apples, plums, cucumbers, and tomatoes. "How about some cheese?" I said, spying a large block. "Sure," Sharon agreed. "It'll go good with our cucumber and tomato sandwiches." She was so agreeable - I wondered if I might persuade her to lug another melon. "How about a watermelon?" I asked. "I'll pay for it, if you carry it," I offered. "Naw," she declined. "It'll make me lopsided." "I'll buy two." |
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