Tricky treats

This morning we headed off to St. Croix Chocolates in Marine-on-St. Croix to get our Halloween/Samhain painted chocolate pumpkins. We arrived a few minutes after opening time. The store was full of little, and not so little, old, and not so old, ladies. What it did not have, yet, were painted pumpkins. They were still drying although the Better Half [BH] had been assured by one of the owners that restocked pumpkins would be available by opening time today. BH asked the sales staff to hold four pumpkins for us when they were ready and we proceeded to Stillwater to look at books at Valley Bookseller. Plus, I had seen something about Stillwater having reorganized their parking requirements and I was curious since BH and I used to shop Stillwater fairly frequently prepandemic.

gourds and painted chocolate pumpkins

Photo by J. Harrington

Stillwater’s “new and improved” parking arrangements are sufficiently confusing and annoying that we will not be returning to shop unless absolutely required. We lucked into an empty 30 minute parking space in front of the book store, but what used to be free spaces next to the book store and behind the River market co-op are now designated paid parking or market patrons only. I ended up with a couple of books as treats for me and BH bought some treats for the Daughter and Granddaughter persons. Between travel time and browsing time, and time searching for a parking space, we thought enough time might have elapsed that it would be worth checking back at the chocolate shop to see if the paint on our pumpkins was dry. Sure enough, it was. So, our trip was sometimes frustrating but overall successful and I later figured out that, along with allowing us to gather our Halloween treats, the fates also provided us with several tricks of the season.

I’m not sure if you know about the great Yogi Berra and his (in)famous quotations, but today’s travels definitely reminded me of one of them: "No one goes there nowadays, it’s too crowded.” 

The Problem

By Jane Hirshfield

You are trying to solve a problem.

You’re almost certainly halfway done,

maybe more.

You take some salt, some alum,

and put it into the problem.

Its color goes from yellow to royal blue.

You tie a knot of royal blue into the problem,

as into a Peruvian quipu of colored string.

You enter the problem’s bodegas,

its flea markets, souks.

Amid the alleys of sponges and sweets,

of jewelry, spices, and hair combs,

you ponder which stall, which pumpkin or perfume, is yours.

You go inside the problem’s piano.

You choose three keys.

One surely must open the door of the problem,

if only you knew only this:

is the quandary edible or medical,

a problem of reason or grief?

It is looking back at you now

with the quizzical eyes of a young, bright dog.

Her whole body pitched for the fetch,

the dog wants to please.

If only she could ascertain which direction,

what object, which scent of riddle,

and if the problem is round or elliptical in its orbit,

and if it is measured in foot-pounds, memory, or meat.

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