I love Saturday mornings in my little southern town of Sylva, North Carolina, especially in the summer. That’s when I do errands like checking my mail at the post office, taking garbage to the recycling center, or going to the grocery store. But it’s so much more than that. Saturday mornings have that pastel haziness of a day still waking up and the promise of magic that only weekends can hold. My world seems to be in a good mood.This morning I stop in at Annie’s bakery and buy a dozen chocolate chip shortbread cookies and debate between a big golden lemon square or a perfect apple-raisin mini-Bundt cake. The cake wins out today. It smells so good in there and people are having pastries and coffee and chatting. Main Street is busy this morning with walkers and bikers and window shoppers, the restaurants setting up for lunches, outdoor tables, and delicious smells starting to fill the air (sometimes I have lunch out on Saturdays but not today). Across the railroad track near the new pavilion at the Bridge Park, tents are set up for the regular Saturday morning fresh market where anyone can bring their homegrown produce to sell, or there’s always Terry’s local produce stand to choose a fresh cantaloupe or some peaches or a juice tomato. Some days I wander into the bookstore or the library (or their associated used bookstore), and then ride on down the road to pick up a couple of homemade snacks for Dag at the dog bakery in Dillsboro and chat with the owner for a few minutes. Businesses have baskets of bright red geraniums and pink begonias hanging out front, and the crepe myrtles have truly outdone themselves this year with their splendid magenta blooms.
On the way home I pass by the swimming pool with a few early swimmers already there before it gets really hot this afternoon and one of the county ball fields where a softball game is in progress. Finally, I stop at the hospital auxiliary to drop off some clothes I want to donate that I can no longer wear, then it’s back home. At the bottom of my hill I see my first Joe-Pye weed of the season. It may be called a weed, but to me it looks like a flower, the tall familiar herald of school starting back soon and autumn not too far behind. This is just real life in my small town and a whole lot more than doing chores, and I’m sure the same kinds of things are going on in many other places all over the world. Saturday mornings make me feel good.
Copyright (c) 2009 by Raindrop Ridge Press