Narrative

Any Given Moment

 It was Saturday, on a warm, sunny, fall day.  Sitting at the kitchen table, I was drinking my coffee, trying to wake up.  My 10 year old daughter, Sophia, walked up to me and asked, “Mommy can we make an apple pie?” “Sure, I said, but we will need to buy some apples. “Let’s go to the Farmers Market, downtown here in Columbus, Ohio.” I said. Later, in the day, an unexpected incident would revive a certain memory.

While driving on the highway, the radio was playing an old country song from 1986. It’s called, “Grandpa” by a music artist named, Wynonna Judd. Some of the lyrics from the vocal are, ‘Whoa oh Grandpa, tell me 'bout the good ole days, Grandpa, take me back to yesterday, Grandpa, let's wonder back into the past, and paint me a picture of long ago.

Downtown, there were orange cones lined up on the High Street, the police were directing traffic; groups of people all heading in the same direction toward Ohio State University. Sophia said,” Mommy look they are all wearing the same colors.” “Yes”, I said grinning. It was like a sea of scarlet and grey. Next, we found parking close to the North Market after circling around the block several times.

In a glimpse, we could see a black tent top, with the Farmers Market symbol on it. There were fruits and vegetables with stunning fall colors, like bright yellow, orange, deep purple, red and diverse shades of green.  The harvest presented itself in a fashion to prepare us to eat. As we walked up, we could smell the aroma of roasted peanuts and kettle corn.

The merchants offered a buffet of samples in little white bowls, to tempt us to relish, and then buy. There was apple butter, apples slices, applesauce, organic peanut butter, blackberry preserves, honey and cubes of homemade bread.  The variety appeared to be boundless, with choices. To wash it all down were cups of apple cider. Sophia said, “Mommy,all this food is making me hungry.” I said, “Let’s try some apple cider.” I want everything!” she declared laughing aloud. We sensed a festival lacking of the rides.

Eventually, we realized that we were having so much fun, we forgot the apples.  Until, Sophia grabbed my hand, pulling me. “Mommy look apples” she yelled excitedly. There was a gentleman standing behind the table, he turned around. “Hello, my name is Samuel, may I help you?”He said. Samuel was wearing a pair of black overalls with a blue shirt, and a black hat atop his head. His brown eyes smiled at us.

 “Hi my name is Sophia’ she replied”. “Mommy and I are going to make an apple pie, we need apples. “She said again. “You came to the right place then, a tart but sweet apple, that holds its shape, works well for apple pie.” replied Samuel. “Why don’t you try the Pink Lady apple” as he bent over to show her, he exclaimed. “The perfect apple for a little lady with rosy cheeks.” he grinned.  We all laughed and looked into each other’s eyes. Our basket was chock-full of apples for our pie and other goodies.

Next, we decided to go into the North Market building next to the Farmers Market. Inside were merchants that sell a variety of homemade foods, and wares. Sophia and I bought some fresh bread filled with roasted garlic, grilled vegetables and shaved parmesan cheese baked inside. We toured the indoor market while sampling our next treat.

I heard a familiar language coming from a place called, “Hubert’s Polish Kitchen”. They had a menu; many of the dishes were almost identical to the ones my grandmother (Bobcha) made for family dinners.

When I was 10 years old I went to visit my grandmother (Bobcha) in Buffalo, NY. It was a humid, summer day in Ohio. My Godfather’s Ford station wagon had no air conditioning in it. To stay cool, you just stick your head out the window. He had a cooler full of ice cold Canada Dry ginger ale, and sandwiches. This was the first time traveling without my parents.

Next, I woke up to find my godfather parking the car. I found myself in a different place. A neighborhood filled with houses the same shape and size, sandwiched together.  They were stamped out in rows. The sidewalks connected everything and there was little grass or trees.  

Bobcha lived in a predominately Polish/Italian block of Buffalo, NY. A big Catholic Church, a Cathedral was across the street from her house. To reach her door you used a sidewalk between the houses. She had small flower beds of roses along the sidewalk. It smelled like sweet plums.

The entrance has a turquoise awning covering three steps. A big wooden door opened and a voice familiar to me came from it. “Czecc jnkooye” she said, meaning hello and welcome. “Prosze” she said, meaning please, waving her hand to come in the door. She hugged and kissed us both on the cheeks.

Impossible to just drop me off, my godfather was escorted to Bobcha’s dining room table, and seated. There was a wealth of homemade food on the table. A platter of cabbage rolls filled with beef and rice, topped with a tomato sauce called, Golabki, dumplings filled with potato and cheese called, Perogies, and Polish sausage called, Kielbasa. A cutting board layered with sliced fresh bread and butter pats. Bobcha said, “Prosze” meaning please, pointing to the table. She said, “I went to the Broad Street Market shopping yesterday”.

Then, I heard a voice say to me, “Hello, my name is Hubert Wilamouski” he said, reaching his hand to greet me. I blinked and looked at him smiling. Sophia was still holding my hand. “Hello”, I said, my name is Christine and this is my daughter Sophia.  “Jnkooye” he replied, “Welcome” he said, again. “My Bobcha cooked many of the foods you have here at your kitchen,” I said. “Awe, Kresia and Zocia I hope you will try my food sometime.” He replied. “I will take four of your potato and cheese Pierozi (Perogies) to go”, I said.

Finally, an unexpected incident would revive a certain memory. I didn’t see the parallels of our visit to the Farmers Market, Bobcha, and my daughter Zocia, her name sake, until I heard Mr. Wilamouski voice.