To Market To Market

Seattle Public Market in 1950

It's impossible to think about Saturday morning without recalling my parents' inflexible Saturday schedule: shopping and cleaning. They shopped, the kids cleaned. Period.
At the time of this photo I was 6, and not much good at shopping or cleaning. My parents knew that if I stayed home with my 10-year-old brother, something would get broken, either precious dishware or one of my bones, so he was left to clean, and I hopped into our 1948 Studebaker, headed to the Seattle Public Market. Once there, I turned on my Shirley Temple charm, smiling and greeting the merchants, and they responded by giving me something to eat. The butcher would slice off a half-inch chunk of  balogna, never bothering to wash the meat-cutting debris off his hands. I would still be munching on it when we  got to our produce man, who was good for an delicious UNWASHED Washington State apple. As we delved further into the market, I could smell my freshed-baked cookie awaiting in the bakery, and it would be handed to me in by a generous UNGLOVED hand. I don't even remember my parents being there. It was all about me and my friends at the market.
On the way home, I could still taste the cookie, probably because I was wearing a lot of it, and I felt very lucky, knowing my brother was going to catch it for not doing his chores.