Starting
Point Hopeful peddler on a dead-end road
By SUE DIAZ
Theres a tree outside the window of my room here on Salt
Spring Island. A tall, craggy pine at the lip of an embankment, tilting at a
slight angle toward the shore, like an old man whos hard of hearing.
Crooked limbs jut out at different levels. Some are wrapped around
each other and the trunk -- a sinewy tangle that makes this fellow look like
his arms are folded in front of him. Strips of pine needles fan out from the
thinner branches, lifting gently in the wind. They seem almost ornamental, like
a hat band on a gray fedora or a Sunday bow tie. Yet the old guy stands tall
and proud with a dignity and power that comes from weathering decades of salt
air and winter storms and the sometimes searing rays of a hot August sun.
I came to British Columbias Salt Spring Island fully
expecting this rugged beauty and character. For years Ive heard stories
of the island from Jackie, my friend and fellow San Diegan, who along with her
husband own this cabin to which Ive retreated. I joined her here for a
weeks spring vacation from life in California. Instead of being
copywriter, wife and mother of two, I am, for a short time, friend, hiker,
daydreamer, observer of squirrels and expert on the role of kindling in
building a good fire in a wood-burning stove.
I was drawn here by Jackies tales of rocky coves and
evergreen hills; towering arbutus and moss-covered trails; brazen, black-tailed
deer wholl probe your pockets for carrots; and long-necked geese that
honk as insistently as big-rig drivers caught in the freeways slow lane.
I remember her descriptions of ferries and sailboats weaving through the chain
of the Gulf Islands, of orcas leaping and the mainland disappearing in a veil
of distant mist. Coming here I carried visions of pink and purple starfish the
size of dinner plates and of views as big as forever. I was prepared for the
grandeur of this place, prepared for beauty spelled out in big,
bold letters.
But I wasnt ready for the tiny roadside flower stand and its
four-and-a-half-foot proprietor I encountered the other afternoon.
We were driving back from a trip into town where wed stocked
up on essentials like pistachio nuts and Diet Pepsi. That afternoon, instead of
turning directly into the driveway and heading for the carport, we decided to
continue on a quarter-mile more to the point, for a look at Ganges Harbor.
We took in the view at the point, turned around in a cul-de-sac
and noticed a little girl about 10 years old standing alone at the side of the
road. In the yard in the back of her, an old wide-tired bike leaned against a
long, low car in need of paint. A white trailer squatted under a TV antenna.
Next to her, on a flat-topped rock, was a jelly jar filled with bright-yellow
daffodils, a fistful of springtime fireworks. Her eyes followed us. She was
selling fresh-cut flowers, and we were potential customers.
Her end-of-the-road location did not lend itself to high-volume
business. It was as if Neil Armstrong had set up a card table on the lunar
surface in an effort to peddle moon rocks. The chance of customers was zero to
none. It didnt help matters that every yard in the area had its own share
of daffodils. And the ones that grew wild, poking up here and there among
brambles and fence posts, made the girls entrepreneurial endeavor even
more impossible.
Yet there she was, open for business, waiting and ready if,
against all odds, someone should chance down that dead-end road in sudden need
of daffodils.
If there was a bumper sticker that read I brake for kids
selling stuff by the side of the curb, Id slap it on my fender. I
think all children with roadside stands deserve our patronage, whether
theyre selling original artwork, baby alligator lizards, daffodils or
lemonade. It encourages initiative. Teaches the value of a dollar. And
experience has shown that lukewarm lemonade served in 3-oz. Dixie cups can, if
the day is hot enough, actually quench a thirst.
We stopped, rolled down the window, and asked, Say, how much
are your flowers?
Two for 50 cents, she said in a voice soft as an inlet
breeze. She dipped her head shyly. Straight brown hair framed her round
face.
OK. How bout four for a dollar?
She seemed reluctant, as if we were trying to talk her down on the
price. But she agreed to our offer. Her words were, All right, but
her manner said, Just this once Ill settle for four for a
dollar. Maybe she hoped wed tell our friends.
She handed us our bouquet, then returned to her post next to the
rock with the jelly jar. We continued down the road, rounded a turn and she
slipped from the side mirror into my island memories.
On a hike to the point early the next morning, I passed the place
where she sold her flowers. There, taped to the flat rock, was a piece of
typing paper, damp from dew and ocean air. On it, written in capital letters
with a crayon, were the wriggly words: Closed, Please Come
Again.
Against a timeless background of rocks and tides and tall pine
forests, I came to see that little girl, waiting to sell her daffodils, as the
embodiment of every small, human hope for tomorrow. Optimism in scuffed
sneakers. Golden dreams in jelly jars.
I know the island is famous for its breathtaking vistas, but that
small scene at the tip of Scott Point had a heart-stopping quality all its
own.
Sue Diaz writes from San Diego.
National Catholic Reporter, February 19,
1999
|