Free Kindred by Tammar Stein

aren’t what God had in mind?” I hope he takes this as a rhetorical question.
    “That’s just another way of saying you doubt. You can hold on to those feelings, but your actions better be those that follow God’s commandments, that help your fellow man. Do any of us reach our full potential? Is there anyone who could say in all honesty that they couldn’t have done anything more than they did? No. God has set an impossible standard for us. We’re human, fallible, selfish, weak. We do the best we can and live our life. Does that help?”
    “No.”
    We both laugh.
    “There’s this great old saying I learned in rabbinical school that during the day God dictated the Torah to Moses, and at night He explained it to him.” He pauses to let that sink in.
    “Then no wonder the rest of us are floundering,” I say. “But I guess that makes sense.”
    “Sure it does,” my father says. “Now take care of yourself and call more often. You don’t need a crisis to talk to your old man.” He sounds lonely, and I feel a zing of guilt for not doing more and calling more often. Another thing to add to my list of inadequacies.
    “Yeah, Dad.” The phone pressed to my ear is warm. I’m alone in my tiny apartment and I wish my dad were here. “And thanks.”
    *  *  *
     
    The Saturday farmers’ market is held under a large wooden shelter next to an empty parking lot I’d passed several times during the week without paying much attention to it. Now the lot is so overflowing with cars that there’s a crooked line of them on the grass by the side of the road.
    I park my car, on loan from Frank. I hear the bluegrass music before I see any produce, and as I hike over to the market, I unintentionally keep time with the lively beat that shakes out from under the massive shelter that houses the market. As I draw closer, I see tables piled with mounds of fresh veggies in shiny pyramids and glorious bunches of wildflowers arranged in bouquets that would make Martha Stewart weep with joy. There are stands selling baked goods, homemade cheeses and crafts. The band, up on a tiny stage, consists of four generations of the Winkler family, as a draping sign proclaims. Toothless Great-grandpa, wearing an I’M THE BOSS baseball cap, plays the bass; Granny and Dad play the fiddle; while the youngest member of the family, a girl of about ten, looks both embarrassed and pleased as she plays the accordion and is sometimes persuaded to sing in a high, clear voice. They sing Civil War–era melodies that must have been sung in this very town for over a hundred years. As I remember the
H
flags from earlier in the week and Frank’s graphic recounting, the lovely melodies, and plaintive fiddle seem haunting.
    I shake off grim thoughts of war and begin jotting down impressions in the small notebook I’ve brought with me: the soft morning air, the scent of crushed basil leaves, the unhurried mix of families, dedicated hippies in vegan shoes andconservative social pillars picking through wildflower bouquets probably intended for their evening’s dinner parties. I’m trying to stay a detached observer, but the market is such fun that I find myself beguiled by it. I tuck the notebook into a back pocket, as I am unable to resist buying spring baby lettuce, a bright, happy bunch of sunflowers and strawberries that smell like perfume.
    A deeply tanned woman in overalls bags my strawberries and we start chatting.
    “Yeah, I am new here,” I say, answering her question. “I work for the
Gazette.
” I love saying that. I tilt a hip so she can see the reporter’s pad poking out. “I’m actually on assignment,” I say. “But I’m mixing business and pleasure.”
    Her eyes gleam with interest, so I ask her a few questions about her farm, how long she’s been coming to the market and what’s in season. Juggling the bag of produce on my arm, I write down her comments. The bags are slipping, but I don’t want to hug them too tightly, since the