Tales of the Market

One of my favorite places as of late has been my local Municipal Market.

It's not really a farmer's market, per se. Well I don't consider it such. But maybe it is. I can get fresh fruits, vegetables, meat and seafood, and such there. And they have some great restaurants, including an afro-Caribbean and soul food restaurant. I believe they even have a place serving Venezuelan street food.

Now, I go because there's a great juice place there called Rawesome Juicery. I would get one of their juices through Uber Eats and I was thinking that this place is down in the Sweet Aurburn avenue district and it's the halfway point between my house and my job (I live 4.5 miles from work).  Ain't nothing to just stop by and get some juice and save the delivery charges.

And I am particularly interested in some of their cut-up vegetables.

I've had some of the cut-up greens and they were great.  There's a place that sells fresh cut fruits and that's always convenient.

But what's interesting is that this place was called "The Curb Market" when I was a child. It's the Municipal Market now. But I did find a sign showing it as "The Curb Market".

Anyway, I have some funny memories of this place. It was my Great-grandmother's favorite place.

You read that right. Great-grandmother. So this goes back some 40 years at least.

I remember her saying many a summer morning, "Lisa, get up and get your bath, because we are going down to the curb market today."

My 4-year-old little self did not care for this. It meant getting out and walking a mile to the bus stop and catching TWO Marta buses downtown to the market. And once we got there,  I was a bit horrified by the sight of whole pigs hanging upside down from clothesline.

It was a bustling place with people hurrying to and fro. And at times, there were flies everywhere. This was overwhelming to my little 4-year-old self. There was nothing worse than seeing a dead pig covered in flies.

I don't remember what we bought. I was just ready to go. I just didn't like the long bus rides and the walking to the bus stop. I think about it every time I see the railroad over near my grandmother's house.

We use to take the path and walk way up the street and down a hill and wait for our bus. The bus was only 15 cents back then, and I remember gripping my nickel dime tight in my hand so I wouldn't lose it.

But I just couldn't stand the place. I remember wanting to just be back in house near the house fan. I would rather be playing with my dolls and not on the long journey to and from the farmers market.

I promised myself that when I grew up I would NEVER go back to this place. EVER.

And some 42 years later, I changed my mind. I decided  to go, and I am glad I did.

It's a nice place. No pigs hanging on clothesline. Not a fly in sight. Thank goodness for that.

I am so happy that it is near my house, some 2 miles away. They even have a small vintage book store. I take a bagful of books whenever I go for donation.

So that's my tale of the market. It took me 42 years to get back there. I guess it's okay for us to change our minds, even so many decades later.