Free Cherry Blossom Baseball by Jennifer Maruno

thirty-five cents a dozen, or three dollars for a hundred, all but those that went back into the ground and the ones from the plant that won him first prize each year in the annual show. Her mother had pointed out the row of first prize silver vases that stood along Mr. Downey’s mantle.
    As they stepped out the front door, the rumbling of an old delivery truck made her father smile. Naggie Fujioka had kept his promise and stopped his travelling grocery truck on the way to Niagara Falls. Her mother came out of the house clutching Hannah with one arm and her purse in the other. Hiro followed.
    â€œWelcome, new people,” the driver of the truck said as he jumped from the cab and waved his arms about. “I know all Japanese families in Great Golden Horseshoe.” Naggie opened the truck’s wide back doors and pulled down a wooden step for them to mount.
    Michiko liked the idea of living in a golden horseshoe. It sounded so much better than ghost town.
    â€œCome in, come in,” the thin Japanese man repeated, giving a huge smile of dark gums and broken teeth. His sleek, flat head and narrow eyes reminded Michiko of a weasel. He wore a white shirt rolled to the elbows. His dark baggy pants, shiny from too much wear, clung to his thin, marble-like knees.
    Eiko took a deep, purposeful breath and mounted the steps carrying her purse. Michiko and Hiro followed her into the dim interior of the truck. They were immediately assailed by the acrid odours of raw fish, overripe vegetables, and musty dried mushrooms. Hiro made a face and climbed back outside. For a fleeting minute Michiko felt sad, remembering these kinds of smells from her visits to her grandparents on Powell Street.
    The slanted bins that ran along one side of the truck held the kind of vegetables her family liked: bean sprouts, bok choy, nappa , and the hairy roots of ginger and white radish. Below the bins, open wooden barrels held different coloured beans. A large tub filled with lumps of creamy white tofu and one of red bean paste sat at the back. Huge stacks of rice sat at the sides. Cast iron skillets, pails, and scrub brushes hung from nails on the wall behind.
    On the opposite side of the truck, shelves held packages of noodles, green leaf tea, sesame seeds, and crackers. The shelf below held assorted tins, bottles of shoyu , and vinegars. Below the shelves were large ice chests, painted with black Japanese letters.
    Her mother lifted the lid of one of the ice chests; several fish lay on top.
    â€œYou like eel?” the man asked after she put the lid down. “Eel good price today,” he said, pointing to the chest beside it. “Also have,” he said, rubbing his hands together, “shrimp and oyster.”
    â€œA couple of those mackerels will do,” her mother said as she moved to the shelves.
    Michiko lined up her mother’s purchases on the small counter next to a metal scale and cash register. Next to the ginger root that reminded Michiko of a little old man, she placed a long head of wrinkly cabbage, a small bag of dried mushrooms, and a package of dried seaweed. A large chunk of white tofu floated in a small pail of water. Next to that were a bottle of soya sauce, a ball of miso in wax paper, and a jar of pickled plums.
    â€œThe plums are for your father,” Eiko said with a grimace after the shopkeeper placed them on the counter. She spotted a stack of small bars of soap wrapped in rice paper and put her fingers to her mouth in thought. Then she reached out, took one, and placed it on the counter. “This will be for me.”
    Michiko lifted the soap to her nose. Her aunt Sadie always smelled of flowers, a fragrance that often stayed behind after she had left the room. The soap’s familiar sandalwood fragrance brought her a sense of contentment.
    â€œFirst time I charge for pail and tofu,” the grocer said as he calculated the cost. “Next time you bring pail and just pay for tofu.”