Buckets of peaches, and such
#wrightwritesnow 57
Marianne—the friend my mother’s age who taught me an hour’s worth of Portuguese in exchange for an hour’s worth of gardening when I first landed in Portugal, and so much more besides—laughed when I asked her a question in 2014. We had just moved house. My 83-year-old neighbour across the road, Maria do Rosário, had a brother who would visit her about once a week. He would bring her huge amounts of fresh produce. And she would, in turn, give bucket-loads to me and my partner: tomatoes, fresh oregano still on the stem, enormous onions, tangerines, more tomatoes, peaches, and more peaches.
I asked Marianne, “It’s too much. I spent the whole day making tomato sauce - we have enough for our pasta for the next six months at least—if we have pasta every day! I don’t want to offend her by saying it is too much. What can I say to her?”
Marianne replied, “You say obrigada. That’s all you can say: thank you—and accept it all with good grace.”
“Would you like some peaches?” I asked her. No, she did not need peaches, she had a peach tree of her own. I knew this. Such was the gentle humour between us.
None of the above generosity was expected and, despite my protestations of the over-abundance, I was grateful. Also, I learned how to make jam and chutney with the type of peaches which are not really meant for such things.
But then, there is another kind of gift that arrives on my doorstep. A few nights ago, I drifted off to sleep thinking about the mattress I would have to buy for my “summer reading spot” near the door to my apartment. Instead of worrying about juggling finances to make that happen, I merely thought about the pleasant aspects, such as the colourful pillow cases I would sew, and the wooden-bead curtain I might also have to put up to make things more private. In other words, I was visualising about making an odd space somewhere I would like to be. When I awoke the next morning, it was the last thing on my mind. It was a back-burner item, that is all.
This space has evolved since the day I moved in, pictured below.
If you have read a few of my other posts, you will know that aside from the furniture pictured here, and a few other things, much of my apartment has been furnished with items found at the recycling bins. So I was thrilled to find a perfectly good dismantled bed, the long beams of which I used to craft a spare bed to fit the stairs. That sounds grand, considering I was sleeping on an inflatable sofa-bed at the time.
This rudimentary bed, with a thin foam mattress from the impossible folding bed (a welcome gift) I had first started out with, was an ascetic’s delight. Sometime during last summer, the middle panel of the inflatable sofa-bed got a puncture, and sleeping sideways on it was very bad for my back. So, I alternated between this hard punishment and the inflatable back-breaker until November, when I managed to buy (and assemble) an IKEA Hemnes. I love sleeping once again.
About a month ago, I added a removable panel to the base of the ascetic’s version of Paradise, now without the folding bed mattress, exchanged for my hairdresser neighbour’s clothes’ rack, which serves as a clothes’ horse for drying heavier laundry items. The panel has afforded extra storage space for seldom-used items.
Back to my sleepy visualisation. The very next evening, a woman stopped at my door. I greeted her, of course, since I recognised her as someone who lives in one of the apartments around here, but I had never actually spoken to her, aside from the kind of absent-minded Bom dia one gives to passers-by in these parts. She asked me if I would like some cushions/pillows (the word for each of these items is the same in Portuguese). I hesitated. Then she pointed to my punishment bed, and explained what kind of almofadas she meant. So, I said, yes, thank you, I would, if she didn’t need them. She said she would rather give them directly to someone, implying she was loathe to dump them at the recycling.
It is as if, by simply thinking about this that I willed these things into coming into my life. The cushions, which she was given—presumably when visiting family or friends over the Easter weekend, and which she probably accepted with an obrigada in the polite Portuguese way—were, I confirmed, surplus to her requirements. They are a near-perfect fit for my custom-built structure:
Although fairly clean, I will launder the covers soon. In the meantime, I have covered the lot with something that is clean—and which I have had longer than some of my clothes, and that’s saying something.
My thoughtful neighbour stopped by the following morning with the last of the cushions for the back. She and I share one of the walls in my kitchen, apparently. She was delighted when I suggested that one of these days, she should come over for a coffee. I look forward to that too.
It's interesting to see the evolution of that space over time.
Lovely story with layers of meaning for me!