The Old Woman in Red (and me)

I went to the farmer's market last Wednesday to pick up a few things to hold us over until the weekend. I bought a carton of eggs and a bag full of plums, peaches and nectarines for $4.50. Normally, I buy fruit that isn't quite ready so that it will last throughout the week but, because I knew we would be going back to the market Saturday, I bought instant gratification fruit, softish and ready to bite. I could smell the plums, peaches and nectarines even holding them at arm's length. It was delicious. But I wasn't sure how to carry all the fragile things with one hand and call my mom with the other, so I stopped for a minute to consider. I put my packages down gently and raised my face to the warm--and rare--San Francisco sun, unbuttoning my coat--Tiffany's coat, bright pink with a nice snappy collar and a fitted waist.

Then I saw the old woman. She was moving slowly on pencil-thin legs. She wore a bright red knitted hat and a matching ankle-length knitted sweater. She saw me too. I could tell she was looking at me even from across the grass. She rounded the corner and shuffled toward me. We stared at each other in something like recognition.

"Your coat is lovely," she said.

"I was just about to say the same thing about your red," I answered, which was not really true. I had wanted to say the same thing, but if she hadn't spoken first, I probably would have just stared at her and smiled.

The woman shuffled off toward the market. I could picture the plums in her wrinkled hands. And then, with a little more effort, I could picture me, in 50 years, holding plums in my wrinkled hands, shuffling along on not-so-pencil-thin legs (I'm sure that woman never played soccer). I remembered a book of poems my mom used to have: "When I Am An Old Woman I Shall Wear Purple." I don't own a single piece of purple clothing--not even a pair of socks--but I always loved the poem that gave the book its title, so here it is:

"Warning"--by Jenny Joseph

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick flowers in other people's gardens
And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.