The Farmers Market and The Library: Part 1

In the deepest, darkest days of COVID, I think we all thought about what we would do as soon as it was “over.”

On my mind at the time?

International Travel— I spent a lot of time on Tuscany VRBO

Hug People, especially my parents

Host dinner parties

Make more of an effort to see plays and live music

But, perhaps the biggest “want-to-do” for me was to write for hours and hours in a busy coffee shop. 

Between a career in territory management with a home office and years of blogging, I became accustomed—and good— at the coffee shop work sesh. It was in a Starbucks that I purchased my first domain name. I drafted contracts in plenty of cool, college town haunts. And, I have logged lots of words at Panera’s. In the pandemic, I really missed the soft music, gentle chatter, warm smells and a caffeinating me alone with my computer.

Finally, on a cold, grey day in February 2022 I got my want. I was killing time before dinner with friends in Fountain Square, so I sat for a couple hours in one of my favorite coffee shops in the neighborhood— Bovaconti, for locals– and wrote.

The small, corner shop was surprisingly busy, especially for late afternoon, so I posted up on a bar stool at the ledge along a big window with a Golden Latte. A Golden Latte isn’t my normal order— it’s a little fancy and I am probably always a little too concerned about calories. But life that day wasn’t normal. I needed a little fancy and to not worry about calories. Not to mention, the yellow glow of the drink against the white cup gave me almost as much of a delight as the first sweet, spicy sip.

After a while, a young man came up to the stool beside me, the only empty seat, and asked if he could sit there. I narrowed my mild sprawl of drink, water, phone, and notecards to make sure he had enough room and welcomed him to the now tight ledge.

He set down his steaming, paper cup and pulled a notebook and pencil from his backpack. My eyes wondered. One, because that part of the fun of the coffee shop. Two, because I am nosey. I like overhearing the college gals gab about everything from Jesus to the kind of protection they are discussing with their partners. I like peaking at the doodles that cover someones homework or at what another person is reading. 

This young man’s notebook, covered in pencil scrawl, appears to be a journal full of long pages of words. I make out “I paid IUPUI $150 dollars!!” in angry letters. 

Oof. A parking ticket maybe? Been there, I suppose as I settle back into my own scribbles.

Time passes and eventually the young man turns to me slightly, eyeing my coffee shop detritus and asks, “What are you working on?”

I hesitate.

The gold flecked notecards I am stacking up every few minutes are “Thank You”notes. “Thank You” notes for the overwhelming amount of love I received in the form of food, flowers, cards and more in the previous few weeks. My little brother died just four weeks earlier. 

Does he really want to know?

Reading a bit of his energy— and noting that he is a young man with a journal— I decide he can handle it and I tell him the truth. 

Shock and sadness wash over the unassuming young man as he apologizes for my loss and that he asked. I assure him that it is totally fine that he asked and that I am sorry Dan died, too.

He looks at the notes and then back at me, probably feeling a little awkward. I smile a bit and offer, “But, what these notes are is really just evidence of great love.”

He nods, understanding and reading my energy that runs warm and open and he kindly— and cautiously— asks if I have learned anything from this.

I try not wince at the question. My sister and I had just talked about how we do feel changed, but not really sure how. Like the old us is gone and we don’t know who we are now. Our bedrock completely shaken by the explosion of the sudden loss of Danny.

But, have I learned? I try to think. Sure there are the cliches— the “You never know how much time you have” stuff and the “aging is not just a privilege— but, a gift” thing. But, I my friend lost her husband three years earlier, when he was just 32. Another lost her best friend when we were twenty three. I lost a job just as I was getting my footing in my career. I left another job in a season of burnout and knowing that “leaning out” was the best for my family and for me. I had births go very wrong and my whole foundation shaken and shifted thanks to the massive change that is motherhood.  

The “Live your best life now,” “Life is precious,” and “Hug your loved ones?” These are not lessons I needed to learn. I knew these things. I didn’t need the universe to give me “a lesson.” And, I especially didn’t love the idea of getting one through the death of one of the best people I had ever known. 

A bitter, “Hey, my brother, who happened to be the nicest, gentlest guy I knew, died and it was like a bomb went off in the lives of everyone I loved; but, I learned XYZ. So… worth it!” runs through my mind.

No.

And, no. With this kid, I don’t need to get that deep. Maybe a kid in his 20s could use these lessons that I had already learned so I mash up the lessons that feel like cliches to me in to a response: “I am at an age where getting older isn’t “fun” anymore. Signs of aging like wrinkles and grey hair are pain and show up every day. But, maybe they are actually the price of admission to more years. Years where I also get to see the joy and really good stuff. I will happily deal with some wrinkles for that.”

He smiles, “Yeah, I hear that. I am totally worried I am going bald so I keep combing my hair over afraid that people will see it; but really, does it even matter?”

I laugh. “I get just wanting to look like yourself, but… kind of seems like an okay trade, right? Hair for years?” Then I add, with a gleeful whisper that is my “big sister-ness” showing, “My little brother was totally going bald.” 

Then, going into full big sister mode, I decide to not let him get off so easy. I ask him about his journal.

“I am a writer, too” I offer. Something that feels weird for any writer to actually say out loud, but I hope it breaks the ice as I tell him about the new journal I brought earlier that day.

He dances around a hard time he had in 2019 finally settling on: “I didn’t like myself.” 

A piece of me softens. Danny had years like that, too.

Continuing, he told me how writing about his day and about his feelings has helped him. He said he loves this coffee shop near his home because writing here feels like he can have some human connection; but, also spend time with his thoughts. Working them out on paper and trying to find the pieces of himself that he likes.

“It’s good work,” I commend him with a smile, unable to also not think of Danny who found the pieces of himself that he liked best in recent years thanks to music. “You are the person you are going to have your longest relationship with. It’s good to try to like you.”

He comments on how I seem so wise. I laugh a little. “Years of older sister-ing at play,” I shrug.

“What is the best advice you have ever received?” he asks.

I think for a beat. Big question. I consider my thoughts, looking out the window to the funky record store across the street, stray flurries of snow flittering through the air.

Then, it comes easily: “Find the library and the farmers market.”