I Join The Local-Produce Co-op

The Current newspaper announced that the local-produce co-op, Community Helpings Co-op, was going to add Pacific to its list of every-two-weeks delivery points, and it needed 26 orders to make Pacific a regular stop. I've always wanted to join and support a co-op and local farms, so I signed up and paid online -- except I made a mistake. Instead of just one basket I ordered two "baskets" of produce by accident, and couldn't figure out how to cancel the extra order, so I got my new neighbor Sally to agree to take the extra bag off my hands for free.

So on a hot afternoon the refrigerated truck drives up to the picnic shelter and starts unloading, and people start distributing what ends up to be about 45 pounds of produce per order. Each order -- far bigger than any "basket" I've ever seen -- contained (contents differ with the seasons): 1 fresh pineapple, 3 big round red onions, 2 garlic heads, 6 huge peaches, broccoli head, plums and lemons galore, many fat homegrown tomatoes, a huge melon (I just measured mine: circumference 23 inches), 3 LARGE yellow summer squash, 1 large romaine head, buncha celery, 3 cucumbers, 6 kiwis, 7 ears fresh corn.

I'd brought just two small bags. I got some boxes for the overflow and people ("Why, that bag is just 'bout as big as yew are!") helped me stow it in my car.

When I got home I dragged one bag over to my neighbor: the "mistake" bag. She has a big family; she can use it.

I had also ordered from the co-op two optional items, just for me: dozen mangoes (beautiful!) and locally-made thin-pizza shells, thinking to make pizzas with produce and eat them for days. When I get into the house the phone rings. It is the co-op lady telling me I left one of my bags at the park and a kindly couple was coming to my address to bring it to me. I did not have time to say, "But wait; I think I got all my produce," because, omg, there they were pulling up at the house, dragging out yet another loaded blue co-cop bag. I gave them a bottle of port for their trouble, but now I had produce on every horizontal surface in my fridge, kitchen, dining room, and knee deep on the floor. Fortunately I have friends, and whatever they didn't take and I couldn't possibly use I set in a box down by the highway, and marked the box "FREE." Gone within minutes.

Wow, now I want to do that again! If you live in the area, check it out. If you don't, maybe there is a co-op near you.

Eating Well is the Best

If you lived here, or if you came over, I would take you to town and buy you some Lions Club fundraiser barbecue, a must-have during the spring weekends around here, Fri and Sat. 10 a.m. to dusk, sold from a yellow trailer that backs onto rows of men, volunteers for the cause, sweatin' it over the grills. What would you like? I favor the pork steaks -- hard to do well -- but will never turn down a bratwurst ($6 buys you two). Nor will I ignore a half a barbecued chicken on my styrofoam plate. Midwestern men are the best barbecuers in the world.

The Country Newspaper

Among the delights of rural living is the local newspaper, in our case called "The Current." Issued twice a month, it is packed with ads and interviews with local merchants and members of the Chamber of Commerce, plus photographs of local awards ceremonies, benefit events, and ribbon-cuttings -- and the goings-on at the food pantry and Senior Center. I favor those photos of a philanthropic group handing over a poster-sized check to whoever gets it. I also enjoy finding out what names folks are giving their babies these days: Painter, Logan, Chance, Destiny, Harley. All the writing and photography is bylined by one person, except for the Letters column. This week's Current front-page headline is especially charming: "Kiwanis Celebrates 15 Years of Bowling." But see for yourself...I read every word, including the "On Grandma and Grandpa's Knee" anecdotes.

There's an election April 6 and you can bet this week's Letters column is a hoot.

It's Down a Ways, and That's God's Truth. . .

I'm not from here, so I say "crick" and "Rout 66," and if I'm giving someone directions I say, "It's down a ways," and I call a drinking fountain a "bubbler," and a haymow a "haymau," and if I was from a little farther north than I am I would call soda "pop," but I ain't such a hick as all that.

Here people say, "Better 'n' a sharp stick in the eye," and "His ain't the brightest porch light on the block," and "dumb as a bag of hammers," and an ugly woman can "sit on a tombstone and hatch haints," and a little west of here they say "It dudn't," when they mean "It doesn't," but I ain't such a hick as all that -- and they call a hick -- one who doesn't have any manners and doesn't care -- a "hoosier," which is a fightin' word, and nothing to do with Indiana.

And they finish a fervent statement with, "and that's God's truth." That last one I picked up and said, without thinking, in front of a bunch of people from out East who were visiting, and they cut their eyes at each other, like they was really gettin' local color.