We plan it out Friday night. "Okay Dad, what time do you want to go to the market cuz I could go real early." "Yeah, lets get out there by 7:30 so we'll have to leave here no later than 7:20." I cherish these Saturday mornings with my Dad. We are similar and deeply enjoy the efficient execution of a plan. Rumbling east in the little white truck, Bello laid across my lap, we are initially quiet. The truck is cold, the morning new. But by the time we pull into the parking lot, I feel rushed to get in one last topic and always wish the drive were longer. Because once the doors open, the time for idle talk has ended. We strike out like special ops with only a nod and a purse of the lips to let me know- he is heading straight to Fred and Joanne's for cherries while I get coffee, we'll meet at Ronald's stand, picking up blueberries on the way and don't forget, Bonnie requested greens. Within 20 minutes we're out, back in the car with the loot and heading to Gramma's. Flowers and strawberries and a sit down chat. I love my Gramma! But the visit does not last long. Dad reads the front section of the paper and then, "Em, you ready to go? I gotta eat." I cast a what-can-you-do glance at Gram and we are back in the truck heading west where the chores, the events, the wonderful distractions of the weekend wait for our return.
This trip to Santa Cruz has been like one big Saturday. I love the people I ride with in this little old truck of a town. But Portland, the weekend, waits for my return.