Before
I even learned to read, I was perusing the ancient tomes of the used
book stores, in early 70's Petaluma, California. Entranced by the
musky bookstore aromas of cedar, vanilla and patchouli, I watched,
seemingly unaffected, as lengthy discussions unfolded between my
Father and Grandfather.
At
the front of the book store, stood a small chewing gum vending
machine with the word "FORD" printed on a sticker on the
glass. A shiny penny from Grandfather produced a handful of "Chiclet"
type squares of gum, each with the word "FORD" on them.
In
the parking lot outside several tables were set up for a flea market,
a kind of community garage sale where neighbors could buy and sell
used housewares. On one table, in the shade near the building, a
portable phonograph was playing Hank Williams Sr., to the right of
the table a small two wheel bicycle stood on it's kickstand. I turned
to tell my Father, and after a moment of panic, realized he was just
a few steps away at a neighboring table, where a man was selling
electrical parts and cables. With a glance, he told me it was time to
go.
Climbing
into my Father's white Fairmont sedan, we headed back down the two
lane country road that led to Grandfather's house.
The
gum lost it's flavor quickly, I spat it into my hand and handed it to
my Grandfather, then leaned back in the seat and daydreamed as I
stared out the window trying to see what lay beyond the trees that
lined both sides of the road.
The
trees formed a shadowy tunnel, filtering the sunlight into stripes
that crossed the road every few yards, transforming the view through
the car door window into a Super 8 moving picture.
Squinting
into the flashing sunshine I could see the vineyards that stretched
to the low rolling hills floating in clouds of fog in the distance.
My
Father stopped the car along the side of the road, where the tall
trees and faded hills were now replaced with a field of clover, near
a small orange grove. We got out of the car and walked into the field
toward a stack of white wooden boxes. There were a handful of them
placed randomly across the field. As we approached them my Father
motioned me to stay back, put on his white beekeeper's hat and
continued with Grandfather to the boxes. Grandfather held a can that
poured smoke on the hive as Father gently opened it. He removed a
screen filled with honeycomb, cut off a piece, placed it in a mason
jar, then carefully replaced the screen and hive cover.
When
we returned to the car, he handed me a small chunk of honeycomb. The
sweet smell alone made my nostrils flare and my mouth water. I held
my breath as I bit down into the soft wax. The smooth warm honey
coated my tongue, and I slowly exhaled as a smile spread across my
face.
