Early Wednesday mornings in the summer when I am motivated to do my walk, I round the southwest edge of prospect park and tears seep out of my eyes. It is the sight of the Apple Farmer and his daughter setting up their produce at the small green market.
I have seen the daughter working with her father at the Saturday green market for the past six or so years. One fall she was not there, she had gone off to college.
I am reminded of working with my dad at the commercial fishing store. From the age of twelve I worked with him every Saturday and during the week in the summers. I learned accounting, customer relations, how to cut chain and rig up a shrimp net, but most importantly I learned to work hard. Those years I was closest to my father. I understood him and he understood me (although I would never have admitted it then). The closeness is gone now as I moved 400 miles away. I sometimes forget how much I miss him but always remember when I see that farmer and his daughter. It is all really so precious and that is why sometimes apples make me cry.
I have seen the daughter working with her father at the Saturday green market for the past six or so years. One fall she was not there, she had gone off to college.
I am reminded of working with my dad at the commercial fishing store. From the age of twelve I worked with him every Saturday and during the week in the summers. I learned accounting, customer relations, how to cut chain and rig up a shrimp net, but most importantly I learned to work hard. Those years I was closest to my father. I understood him and he understood me (although I would never have admitted it then). The closeness is gone now as I moved 400 miles away. I sometimes forget how much I miss him but always remember when I see that farmer and his daughter. It is all really so precious and that is why sometimes apples make me cry.
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