SANDIA Y HUEVOS

We can treat people with kindness
Find a place to feel good

- Treat People With Kindness, by Harry Styles

As I pulled into the parking lot of the small local supermarket, I saw a car with a sign taped to the windshield: “Eggs”. The man in the front seat had a five-o’clock shadow of pure white.

In the store, I bought fruit and yogurt for my two-year-old son, Ocean. My infant daughter, Anthem, slept in her carseat, nestled in the shopping cart. A woman stopped to admire her.

“She’s five weeks old today,” I beamed.

As I began to drive us home, I once again spotted the sign for eggs. This time, the man was seated on a folding chair in a bit of shade. I pulled over.

“How much for a dozen?” I called.

“Four dollars,” he replied, slowly standing. I nodded. He retrieved a clear carton from the front seat which contained a striking collection of blue and brown speckled eggs.

“Beautiful,” I complemented him. I handed him a five dollar bill. His hand reached for his pocket.

“Keep the change,” I replied.

“Thank you. Have a good day.”

“You too!”

As I drove away, an image of my grandpa Juan came to mind. His livelihood had been growing and selling produce, such as sandia (watermelon). He too had a beard of white stubble, one which contrasted with his dark skin. I have memories of visiting grandpa Juan at a flea market, his large, canvas-covered truck bed filled with ripe watermelons. Although we didn’t get to see him very often, and although his Spanglish was sometimes tricky for my siblings and I to understand, he was always happy to see us. A generous smile would unfold from his face and he’d call out, “Mijos! Mijas!” (my sons, my daughters).

Grandpa Juan and grandma Maria had eleven children. My parents had nine children, the most of any in both their families. Now that I’m a parent, I imagine my grandpa may have felt a special bond with my dad because they were both the fathers of large families. They understood the clamor of an extra-long dinner table. They understood how an entire ripe watermelon, sliced and dispersed into a flock of small hands, could disappear in a matter of minutes.

I miss my grandpa. I wish he was still around to know my children, his great grandchildren. Since meeting the man with the eggs, grandpa Juan has been in my thoughts. I imagine him bouncing Ocean on his knee and holding Anthem with the same tenderness as my dad. When he died, he had scores of grandchildren and great grandchildren from his eleven kids, yet I am certain each one received his beaming smile in equal measure.

After buying the eggs, I recalled memories of driving with my dad and spotting similar hand-drawn signs for produce, then pulling over to buy seasonal fruit such as peaches from a person or family selling them from their car. The vendors were usually happy to offer a sample and my dad would taste with enthusiasm, buying more if the fruit was extra sweet. For the first time, I wondered: had my dad cultivated the habit of buying from roadside vendors because of his father? Did he think about his father when he boosted the business of these entrepreneurial strangers? I would guess so, because when I do the same, I think of my dad. I remember the friendliness with which he spoke to the people selling the produce, people who were glad to see someone pull over and greet them with a smile. I remember my dad’s satisfaction when piling a couple of juicy watermelons into his truck to bring home to his family. He has always been on the hunt for treasure, frequenting garage sales for the surprise of what he might find. I wonder if grandpa Juan was the same way.

At home, I washed the blue and brown eggs and placed them in the fridge. They were the treasure I was glad I took the time to find, yet only in part. The greater gift was meeting the egg man, being reminded of my grandpa, and connecting the simple act of buying eggs to memories from my childhood. Perhaps stopping at roadside vendors will be a tradition I’ll pass down to my children as my dad passed it down to me. When we stop for eggs or peaches or watermelon, I can tell them why. Why, four generations later, we value things sold by people who did the growing and gathering themselves.

Tomorrow morning I’ll show Ocean the pretty speckled eggs. He can take them from the carton and hand them to me to crack and scramble for breakfast. There is so much to teach him. I didn’t realize until three decades later what my dad was teaching me when he stopped at those roadside stands. Maybe he didn’t either. Somewhere along the way, we connect the dots. Watermelon and eggs. Sandia y huevos.