The following column was received mid-April.

Last Saturday I made two trips up to the farmers’ market on 6th Street in search, not for farm fresh produce, but for a sense of normalcy… for the relaxed friendly smiles of the vendors under their frayed beach umbrellas and their proudly displayed “oh so fresh corn, peppers. onions and thyme.” What, pray, other than selfishness, allowed me to think the farmers would be there? Their lives are under the same threat as mine. How could I assume they’d been up since four, loading their vans with lovingly gathered fruits of their labor, to come into my locked down, virus infected city? That they drove in from some magical world just outside the city limits, unpacked and set up their displays in order that mid-towners like me could have a taste of a blessed “other time”? Deep into my ego, I was functioning in that “other time” I assumed still existed those few blocks up the avenue. Two trips, mind you, the first without a mask, left me shaken!

But I’d started off on the wrong foot. I had no mask, and naked faces were becoming rarer. Starting out, I saw Chris in a black mask-muffler. His eyes widened at my lack of such, but he managed a muffled, “Have a nice day.” At once reminding me of our somewhat habituated Saturday routine. He knew I was going to the market, that when I returned I’d lay a peach or pear on his desk. As for masks, I’d hoped to find them at the comer pharmacy, but a sign on the door said “Open today at 10.”

I hardly had time to drape my scarf casually over my face to wait for the M15 when I saw it coming. I stood, transit card in hand, but it was rolling slowly past me! When it did stop, only the rear exit door unfolded ten inches from my face. Having learned to read, I obeyed the sign, “Please use this exit door for entering and leaving the bus.” I obeyed with an extra lunge needed for climbing into instead of down from those exit doors.

Inside, an orange chain stretched left to right cordoning off the front seating section, the driver and the fare box. Having learned first grade math and in the general knowledge of the world event I was living in, I knew it was to protect the driver from mask-less folks like me who could be carrying the virus. The one passenger aboard took a look at me and scurried to the back-most seat. I was getting a clear message.

I exited the door at 67th Street. The short guy with aluminum pans was at his habitual post, there next to the street offering me ready-to-eat delicacies too early in the day. As always, I wondered at his choice of venue; one misstep backward, he and his pans would fall into the line of traffic. But bless him, he was the only familiar vendor in sight, for the school yard was closed off behind a good 8-foot-tall iron fence. It’s always been there, but is usually so hung with flea marketers’ treasures as to be invisible, but in its naked state, reminding me schools are closed and with them school yards for farmers’ markets. (As I write, from over my left shoulder … or field hospitals.)

However, one enterprising farmer seemed to have commandeered a produce truck from California then staked out the public sidewalk beside the yard for his own display. “Locally Grown”? I’d doubt it! But visually, it’d stop you in your tracks — and food supply, mid-pandemic is hardly to be sneezed at! Still, it was as if Amazon.com had cornered the farmers’ market on 67th Street. Alas for attractive displays under frayed beach umbrellas, plates of bite-size tastings and neighborhood greetings spoken with a smile. I hid my face, ambled through the maze of color, spotted the glorious green of kale that managed a “home-grown” freshness and joined the maskers in line to pay.

I was ready for the downtown M31 to open its rear doors for me and fully expected the orange chain protecting the unseen driver. It was empty, but free! I nestled the kale beside me wishing I could ask, “So where are you from?” To a minute degree I’d adapted to New Transit without achieving a smidgen of Saturday morning normalcy and had nothing to place on Chris’ desk. He saw me coming. We saluted, and let it go at that. I ran cold water over the kale and put it to drain. But what to do for my unsettled state?

I tried coffee, no go. A quick look at the crossword? Not now, save for tonight. Mask-less, I’d started out on the wrong foot, and what I’d discovered left me somewhat spooked. Unsettled in my skin. I’d chop the kale. No, the knife needs sharpening. I need sharpening! I’ll start over; I’ll do it again!

The corner store was open. I bought my first masks and pulled one over my ears. As the M15 approached, I was prepared for the extra heft to enter the exit door that opened in my face. Yes, orange chain and the invisible driver … So? Nothing new in that. If I wasn’t retrieving my anticipated normalcy, I was adapting, in a miniscule way, to the enormity of the new one. At 67th I went straight to the guy with the aluminum pans like, “Hi! It’ll soon be lunchtime,” and bought two portions of lasagna that’s to write home about. From the Big Time Amazonian vendor, three of his reddest, rock hard tomatoes and again, lined up, masked, like everybody else to pay.

Chris saw me coming. He smiled behind his mask as I reached for his tomato. “Sanitize,” I said, making the wash-your-hands motion. He returned the gesture smiling and waved me down the hall and home. In some mysterious way, I was back on track.

I sharpened the knife and commenced to chop the kale.

The Dispatch Editorial Board is made up of publisher Peter Imes, columnist Slim Smith, managing editor Zack Plair and senior newsroom staff.