I pulled out the small shopping cart at Trig’s Supermarket and began my meandering search for this year’s supplies, list in hand. Unlike the Ten Commandments, this is a list of suggestions. A starting point to replace the cabin’s out-of-date food and add new items for menus, yet to be determined. Before I even unfolded my scratch paper, a display to my right took me off course. Three Lakes Wine.

Going to the Winery is on my list. They have the tasting bar plus Wisconsin cheeses, locally made soaps with locally grown cranberries (the original fruit that began this Cranberry Wine business), and a potpourri of (mostly useless) souvenirs. I know what I want, so why not just buy my wine here. . . and at a discounted price? So much for loyal patronage.

Now on with groceries. I should have brought rhubarb along, but reasoned I didn’t want to be bothered making the punch and cake on vacation! But, what of my tradition of serving rhubarb cake to Russ, the do-everything-around-my-cabin guy, after we look at my annual wish list of upkeep and possible upgrades? 

I edged my way past the carrots, cilantro, celery, but no rhubarb. A produce man finally pointed to the very top-most shelf at a sparse-pickings of stalks. They were way out of my line of sight and grasp. No price listed. But I wanted them. I bagged what I calculated would be enough for five cups and pay the price, for tradition’s sake. 

I filled the cart with more than my two cloth bags could carry. I took my haul to an open cashier and unloaded. The handsome young man slowly turned my various purchases around until he found the mark to click the price. Then, he came to a halt and asked, “What is this, ma’am?”

“Rhubarb,” I answered with a smile.

“This is my first day on the job,” he began. “I’m from Turkey. I’ve never seen this before.”

He took out a paper list to price check.

“Ah, well,” I said, “you cut this up and can make cakes, sauces, pies. . .” He stopped me.

“How do you spell rhubarb?” he asked, bewildered.

“R – H – U – B – A – R – B,” I said slowly, enunciating the sounds, reverting to my Spanish-teaching days. 

He seemed to get it, punched in some numbers, and finished my collection.

“I hope you get to try rhubarb soon,” I added, putting it into my shopping bag. “Maybe I’ll bring some cake with me next time! For now, welcome and best wishes on your new job!”

Back at the cabin, I got curious. What did rhubarb cost? I took out the receipt and . . . couldn’t find rhubarb listed anywhere. I looked again, more slowly. Nothing. Then, I saw – rutabagas. Rutabagas. I didn’t buy any. . . wait, rutabagas? Rhubarb? I got my five cups of rhubarb for 83 cents! It wasn’t until two days later that I discovered the real going price for rhubarb.

Besides a chore’s list, I have events, people and places to cover. On Monday, I covered two for one when I headed to St. Germain to catch up with Maria, Ricardo and their daughter, Carol, at the “Northwood’s Largest Flea Market” according to area sources. About fifteen years ago, I met them at the Three Lakes Fireman’s Flea Market because. . . I heard them speaking Spanish. Each summer since, I have stopped to visit and to purchase their Amish, not Mexican, but Amish, jams, jellies, honey and maple syrup. I don’t recall how they started working with an Amish farmer named Zimmerman, but I’m sure it is a fine story.

I arrived early, planning on some shopping before my visit. This place lives up to its reputation. From beaver traps, to Hmong garden produce, to signs with sayings only appropriate for man caves, to every craft imagined and then some, it is a pleasure to walk among such variety before trying the delights of parked food trucks. Time for another list that might be found at such an eclectic event. I wrote down: 

One chamber pot (so each bedroom would have its own); blue bottles (so I could make a bottle tree and keep away bad spirits) and gift to self, dragonfly earrings.

It was almost creepy, but the first table across from where I parked had. . . a chamber pot, guaranteed not to leak. Sold! Several tables into the craft area, a woman was selling crystals, dangling out of blue wine bottles. She suggested I start drinking. . . oh, what was the name of the wine? She couldn’t remember, but around the corner, a man with way too much junk, was selling. . . empty blue wine bottles. Ever heard of RELAX? I hadn’t. And the earrings? Some samba music led me to an artisan crafting jewelry out of copper and, there were my dragonflies!

Bottles
chamber pot
shoes off

I wasn’t even half way around the pickings, but it was time to find Carol. They were the real reason for this trek, so I shoved away from reading the off-colored signs and headed to the shelter, where the family has a regular spot, under the roof, out of the sun and next to the main food sources. It is worth noting that Maria and Ricardo are in their 90s. Although originally from Mexico, they have come to the Northwoods for some 25 years, I believe, via their home in Chicago. Carol and Maggie take turns working alongside their parents. Otherwise, Carol teaches in Texas and Maggie is an airline stewardess, presently in Bali!

I love that Ricardo’s face lights up when he sees me. And Maria? She’s not here today. Carol calls her and hands me the phone.

“Jan, I don’t have the energy I used to,” she explains. “I stay home more and make fajitas. I love to cook. Maybe I’m getting old,” she chuckles. She chatters on about loving the part in my book where I go to Mexico at age 15, how she rereads the Christmas card I sent and then proclaims that she has adopted me. I accept, honored beyond words.

As we talk, I notice that Ricardo is using a cane this year, but his smile and jokes are quick, even as he settles into his lawn chair, with the excuse “to let you work a little in sales, today.” 

 I’m not sure that I am much help, but I’m soon wrapping paper around the jars, “Like in Mexico” Carol advised me. We speak in Spanish, code-switching for the customers. I cover when they need to replenish boxes from the van or take a break.

It is mid-afternoon when I say my “hasta luego” and plan to get back to visit later in the summer. On my way out, I pass through the farmer’s market section and there, in a scrumptious display of Hmong grown vegetables, plants and armloads of flowers, I see bundles of. . . rhubarb! They are advertised as “bouquets” for three dollars. Yup, three dollars. Guess I got a pretty good deal at 83 cents! Another mystery solved, as my mother would say. Now, I can cross that off of my list.

***Click here and watch the short YouTube on St. Germain’s Market. . . observe the people, the clothing, the “stuff” and the foods as if you were from another country. Flea Markets, auctions, state fairs… all cultural events! Length: 4:35 minutes

Do you make lists?  Do you enjoy crossing things off or do you do things and then list them?

Below, share something about your lists! Do you find yourself in unexpected places? Then, reflecting back, see that you have had an unlikely adventure? 

Who knew that wanting rhubarb would take me from a Turkish cashier to a Hmong gardener’s stand in a Flea Market hidden in a piney-woods on the edge of a small village in the northland buying Amish jelly from a Mexican family?