The Missing Thread

There are events that rip huge gaping holes in the fabric of our lives, like losing our parents, those we will never fully repair. Then there are events that leave little pin prick holes, like a favorite restaurant converted to a political headquarters so it will never serve you a delectable meal again or the fire that destroys the grill where the best cheese steaks south of Philly were made. Those little holes remind us of our loss when we hold our fabric up to the light.

Then there are the events that pull a thread out of your fabric the whole length of it leaving a long, thin gap you never expected. That missing thread is on my mind today.

For almost twenty years, I have looked for his truck under the University Blvd bridge on Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays. I never knew his name, only that “my produce guy” would be in his truck in his usual spot. (Except for the one year when the bridge was being replaced and he had to park under a tree down the street.) I’d intentionally take the route that went past his spot when I ran errands those days. My slight detour would be rewarded with young, tender pale yellow summer squash or luscious juicy peaches or the perfect box of red ripe tomatoes. He always had a smile and kind words for me, even in the sweltering Alabama summer where he worked all day without air conditioning!

One day when I stopped with my sister Ann, who was visiting from Wisconsin, she asked about the unusal grapes he had. He asked if she wanted a taste, she did. She quickly spit out the tart Scuppernong. Then he confessed, with a wink, that they weren’t really an eating grape. It was the only mischievious thing I ever saw him do.

It was a sure sign of Spring when the truck first appeared and a sign the harvest was over when it was gone once we were past the crisp apples and gnarled yams. I learned to make fried green tomatoes after buying a box of green ones in addition to my usual box of red.

Then several weeks ago, I learned his name. It was on the front page of the paper. It was Woodie. He was 86. He’d had been killed in an accident with a semi. He had seven children and a wife who was glad he didn’t die hooked up to machines and tubes in the hospital. The news brought tears to my eyes. My husband said if he had just died in his sleep we might have never known who he was, his truck would have just been gone. I guess that’s true.

Yesterday, I bought tomatoes in the Alabama summer from somewhere air conditioned. It made me realize, again, that I am missing the thread in my life’s fabric woven by “my produce guy”. I still take the same route to run errands and think of him as I go under the bridge without pulling off to look at his wares. I know I will never be able to replace his missing thread with any other that will come close to matching it.

RIP Woodie and thanks for all the tomatoes!