A Small-Town Life
It was our first non-moving weekend in Roseville, and we’ve come to a resolution: we will embrace the small-town charm inherent in our section of this suburb. And there is a lot of it.
Saturday, after finally unpacking (and alphabetizing) our books, we went to the Roseville Strawberry Festival. It had a county-fair atmosphere that sent us straight into Fayette County, with a country & western band, a selection of old cars on display, several Boy Scout troops selling strawberry-themed foods (we purchased some strawberry shortcake from a sullen-looking young Scout), and a few low-intensity carnival rides. There were some craft booths, what appeared to be a tattoo artist operating out of the back of a van, and the same food booths we’d seen at the street fair last Tuesday. It was all very small-town.
Next we headed to Roseville’s biggest flea and farmer’s market, which encompasses two enormous complexes of produce stalls, plus what must be several acres of parking lot strewn with sellers of both old and new items. We went quite late—around 3pm—so many sellers had shuttered for the day; but we bought far too many fruits and vegetables nonetheless. How could we not, at prices like these—a big basket of strawberries for $1; 4 pounds of Roma tomatoes for $2; a pineapple for $2; four avocados for $2; a big basket of 8 or so zucchini for $2; and much more. We went to this market once before—just weeks after moving to California—and we really like it. The reigning language is Spanish, so it’s not really Fayette County-like, but it has that same bustling small-town spirit as the Comet Flea Market used to have in the 1980s.
Sunday, our landlords were doing some work in the yard, and I engaged the wife about where I might put a garden. Our lengthy conversation eventually resulted in her going back to her house and bringing me the flatware basket to her own dishwasher because I mentioned ours was missing. “I might need it back for Thanksgiving,” she said. Hard to get more small-town than this.
Also, I found out from her that they purchased the house years ago from a drug addict; when our landlord’s wife went to dig up a strawberry patch, she unearthed countless belts and handbags—things the addict had been trying unsuccessfully to sell for drug money. Failing to sell these items, he’d buried them in the backyard.
I also found out that we have a fig tree. I could not be more excited—come June, we’ll be able to overindulge in platters of cheese and fresh figs from our very own harvest.
Last night, Andrew and I made the first gazpacho of the season and grilled burgers in the backyard. As the sun set, we ate in the shadow of the redwood tree. It’s a small-town life.
Saturday, after finally unpacking (and alphabetizing) our books, we went to the Roseville Strawberry Festival. It had a county-fair atmosphere that sent us straight into Fayette County, with a country & western band, a selection of old cars on display, several Boy Scout troops selling strawberry-themed foods (we purchased some strawberry shortcake from a sullen-looking young Scout), and a few low-intensity carnival rides. There were some craft booths, what appeared to be a tattoo artist operating out of the back of a van, and the same food booths we’d seen at the street fair last Tuesday. It was all very small-town.
Next we headed to Roseville’s biggest flea and farmer’s market, which encompasses two enormous complexes of produce stalls, plus what must be several acres of parking lot strewn with sellers of both old and new items. We went quite late—around 3pm—so many sellers had shuttered for the day; but we bought far too many fruits and vegetables nonetheless. How could we not, at prices like these—a big basket of strawberries for $1; 4 pounds of Roma tomatoes for $2; a pineapple for $2; four avocados for $2; a big basket of 8 or so zucchini for $2; and much more. We went to this market once before—just weeks after moving to California—and we really like it. The reigning language is Spanish, so it’s not really Fayette County-like, but it has that same bustling small-town spirit as the Comet Flea Market used to have in the 1980s.
Sunday, our landlords were doing some work in the yard, and I engaged the wife about where I might put a garden. Our lengthy conversation eventually resulted in her going back to her house and bringing me the flatware basket to her own dishwasher because I mentioned ours was missing. “I might need it back for Thanksgiving,” she said. Hard to get more small-town than this.
Also, I found out from her that they purchased the house years ago from a drug addict; when our landlord’s wife went to dig up a strawberry patch, she unearthed countless belts and handbags—things the addict had been trying unsuccessfully to sell for drug money. Failing to sell these items, he’d buried them in the backyard.
I also found out that we have a fig tree. I could not be more excited—come June, we’ll be able to overindulge in platters of cheese and fresh figs from our very own harvest.
Last night, Andrew and I made the first gazpacho of the season and grilled burgers in the backyard. As the sun set, we ate in the shadow of the redwood tree. It’s a small-town life.
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