February 25, 2008--Snowbirding: Death & Tomatoes (Concluded)

Back in 1971, Michele _____ , a nice-Jewish-girl from Long Island, visited her sister, who was a junior at the University of Miami. It was the middle of a brutal winter in New York and after basking in the warmth of south Florida, Michele decided that there was no reason to return home. Ever.

And she never did. Except through the years for occasional visits, there was not much reason to. She was an indifferent student; had few friends; was not dating anyone seriously; and, most important, as a teenager, had recently nursed her mother through the last stages of cancer. He father had died suddenly a few years earlier and her sister was all the family and security she had. From her tragic and lonely experiences, she had come at an early age to realize that life could be sadly short. So after graduating from high school, she packed up her belongings and headed south.

Within months she joined her sister at the University of Miami. It was an era during which the U of M was not regarded for its academic rigor—in fact the University was best known for the half-truth that one could major there in Underwater Basket Weaving. Though Michele did not join that major, she was known more for having fun in the ways typical of students in the 1970s than for haunting the library. Assuming that the University even had one at the time.

But eventually she did find a direction for her life. She became a Thanatologist. Considering her life’s circumstances it is not surprising that she would have embarked upon the academic study of death.

In her newfound interdisciplinary studies, Michele investigated the circumstances surrounding a person's death, the grief experienced by the deceased's loved ones, and the larger social attitudes towards death such as he roles of ritual and memorialization. And once she completed her various internships and clinical training, she found meaningful work counseling the dying and then those left behind.

She did this for many years in hospital settings, with hospice workers, and eventually in private practice. Along the way, she married a local Miami boy and had a son, who is now 28 and about to marry someone Michele calls “a lovely girl.”

“There she is,” Michele says, “Over there by the cash register.” We looked to our left across shelves piled high with locally-grown produce, and saw her behind the counter helping a customer unload a shopping basket full of red and yellow tomatoes, various varieties of peppers, hand-pressed Spanish olive oil, organic ginger, Ruby Red Grapefruits, and home-baked bread.

You see, Rona and I are up in Boynton Beach at the Woolbright Farmers Market. It is owned by Michele. She says that she and her husband opened it about 15 years ago since she needed something else in her life besides illness, dying, and death. Though she quickly points out with a gesture, “See, I even managed to locate it right across from a cemetery!” And sure enough the Boynton Beach Memorial Park is right across the road.

“But I don’t know. I’m not optimistic about he future of this place.” Michele was speaking in a distant way, pausing in mid-sentence to greet customers, every one by name. “So nice to see you, Helen. When did you arrive? You drove all the way from Michigan? So that must mean Peter is doing better. It’s such a long drive with his condition. I’m glad to know he was feeling up to it. And don’t forget to look over there where I have the first of the season’s fresh corn. I know how much Peter loves corn. He’ll love these. That I promise you. They’re organic.”

Michele turned back to us. “I mean, we established this place as a way to push back against the relentlessness of illness and death. I had so much of it in my life. All day, every day. I needed something to balance that. That would be life-affirming. But, now, Im feeling that this too is on life-support.”

But before we could ask why or what was happening she darted across the barn-wood floor to embrace another familiar customer who also had just appeared for the winter season from somewhere else up north. The Farmers Market is a small place, more a place that had evolved from a roadside stand, and so it was difficult not to eavesdrop.

“Oh my, I’m so saddened to hear that. I know how he had been suffering.” Michele was cradling an elderly woman in her arms. “You know, I am sure, that it was all for the best. You didn’t want to have him linger that way. I know that. You said that so often.” She was informally practicing her profession near the case that contained the lettuces! Or rather, Michele was just being a good friend.

“And you also will be fine. You know that too, don’t you? He is finally at peace. If you like, we can talk more about it. Yes, I will come to see you. We’re closed here on Sundays and Mondays. If it’s all right with you, I’ll come for coffee Monday afternoon. Does that sound good?” She was rocking her friend in her arms and we could see that she was nodding her head in assent on Michele’s shoulder. “And I promise to bring you one of those strawberry pies that you both love so much. I have some coming in tomorrow. I remember how much Edward looked forward to when I had those pies. Even toward the end. It will be a good way to remember him and for you to begin your new way of living. Because you know that what’s you need to do, don’t you—to keep living. And not just for the sake of your children and grandchildren. But for you as well.”

Michele made her way back to us. “You know my favorite thing about this place?” I thought it might be to have the kinds of relationships we had just witnessed or, as she had already expressed it, as something to balance her work as a Thanatologist. But though I was eager to learn more about why she was concerned about the future of the market, we were also pleased that she had changed the subject to something more optimistic. “This may surprise you because this after all is still a business, but it’s the things I have in the shop that no one buys.” She smiled up at me and winked. Michele is tiny.

“That’s interesting,” Rona said, “But with limited shelf space doesn't that feel like a business extravagance? I mean . . . ”

“No, no. You’re right. It makes no sense at all from that perspective; but as I told you, we started this place not so much to make money, though with my son about to marry and take over, that will be increasingly important, but as, how shall I put this, as a gesture in the face of impermanence. I know that sounds a bit pretentious,” she checked at herself, “but I know, if you were to be honest with me you’ll say, ‘What’s so impermanent about a store? Much less a farmers market?’ And of course you would be right.” She had read my mind.

“But don’t we all need things to distract us from the natural processes of life? If we spent all our time contemplating such things wouldn’t we all go crazy? Wasn’t it Freud who spoke about ‘the denial of death’? I think so. And though I’m not that much of a Freudian, wasn’t he right about that?”

Just as she was completing this thought she again raced away. Another regular customer had come in and was gently sorting through the bushels of tomatoes. Again we could easily hear their conversation. This time with considerable eagerness, considering the other one we had overheard. To tell the truth, pretending to be sorting through the local honeys and jams, since they were speaking softly, we drifted closer to them.

“Isn’t that wonderful to hear. I had been wondering about Jerry. Good for him. And also good for you and Sid. I mean, for so many years you had been worrying about him. And now you know. Doesn’t that feel good? He can at last be happy. And so can you. Yes? You are all right with this, aren’t you? I’m not sensing too much uncertainty. Am I? Let me look at you.” Michele had stepped back from the 50-something woman who was lithe and elegant in what I took to be a Dina Merrill, Palm-Beach way.

“You do seem fine. I’m so happy about that. Not every parent is as happy as you seem to be when their son, for the first time, brings home his partner. But Jerry did that last week? And you and Sid were fine with that? In your hearts you knew, didn’t you? So you were prepared? Good. I can’t tell you how please I am with your news, that you like his young man, and by the fact that you are all still a family.”

With that Michele danced back to us. “Sorry, I keep running away. I can’t seem to complete a story much less even a sentence. Where were we? Oh, yes, why I like so much the things I stock that no one buys.”

“If you would, please give us an example of something of this kind.” Rona jabbed me in the ribs knowing this might lead to another tangent.

“Take that Spanish olive oil over there. Right behind you. No one every buys a bottle. First of all it’s $12. That’s the one. It’s called Zoe, which you can see from the label means Life. At least that’s what they say. I never checked to see if it’s true. But,” she winked again, “as a death therapist I like anything that’s about Life. And it’s wonderful oil too. Did I say it’s from Spain? It doesn’t sell in part because everyone wants Italian olive oil, thinking it’s the best. But Spanish oil is better.”

“I understand the Zoe-Life thing,” Rona was now shooting me impatient looks, “but what about other things that don’t sell? Do they too have this kind of meaning?”

“No, not at all. I like them because it’s as if they are my secrets out in public view. This place is also a private passion for me. But that passion is also there to be discovered. If anyone cares to search for it they can find it in the things that are here just for me. They can be uncovered, obviously, if anyone cares to try. But for the most part secrets are best when they remain private. Though I find it alluring that they can also be discovered. That’s just me, I guess.”

Though intrigued by this as well as all that we had witnessed and overheard, Rona couldn’t resist bringing Michele back to what she had alluded to as a threat to the market’s existence. “Earlier, you were saying that . . . ”

“Oh that. Yes of course.” It was getting late. We had been there for well over an hour; though, in truth, both of us wanted to learn more about the fate of her market. “Let me put it to you this way. Let me tell you about my tomatoes. That’s why at least half my customers come here. For the tomatoes. I have three local suppliers who grow them nearby, let them ripen on the vine, and then hire the same people years after year to pick them. Because picking tomatoes is not as easy and unskilled as you might think. But this is not full-time work. For generations migrant workers have come here to work the fields. Some just the tomato fields.

“You follow the news about farm workers and how it is believed that many of them are illegal immigrants. Well, who was the governor of Florida until recently? Jeb Bush. And you know about him. The Bushes. He made a big thing about rounding up these workers and sending the out of the state. Claiming they were taking work away from legal Floridians. I don’t know if these workers were documented or not; but, tell me, do you know anyone, any young people, Americans, who wants to work 12 hours a day in these scorching fields?” We indicated that we didn’t.

“So as a result more and more of the local farms are going out of business. They’re being sold and turned into gated communities.” We had been hearing about that. “And furthermore,” Michele said, “there’s no lobby for tomatoes. There’s a lobby for corn and wheat and soybeans and of course tobacco. But none for tomatoes. In fact, because of this the Department of Agriculture is about to require that all tomatoes must have those little stick-on labels. You’ve seen these on avocadoes and bananas and apples. Well, they say, tomatoes are also fruit and they need to have them. But the machines that do that will damage any real tomatoes. So in addition to growing tomatoes that can be picked by machine, with skins so tough you have to spit them out, those that you get that have no taste and have to be gassed to make them red, there will no longer be any vine-ripened, locally-grown tomatoes of the kind that I have here.”

Tears began to well up in her eyes. And in ours as well. We had been so much enjoyed these luscious tropical fruits. To think that if we came back next winter we might not be able to get any . . .

Michele had regathered herself. We were sadly getting her point and figuring out some of the connections and interconnections in her life—those that were evident as well as a few that were secret.

She said, “And so you see,” she gestured again toward the cemetery and this time also at the baskets of tomatoes that were glowing radiantly in the sunlight and which had by then attracted quite a crowd of her friends.

Again, she did not complete her sentence, turning away once more to embrace someone else she hadn’t seen since last April when the Snowbirds head back north. But we felt able to complete it for her.