David McElroy

What do you do if you want to buy vegetables? If you’re like most people, you head to the grocery store to buy food grown far away from where you live by people you don’t know under conditions you aren’t sure about. What if you had a choice to buy veggies from somebody around the block instead?

Sadly, I don’t eat vegetables the way I should, so I can’t remember the last time I’ve been in the vegetable section of a grocery store unless I was on my way to the meat counter or the ice cream aisle. But if I did suddenly become a healthy eater, I’d have a choice that a lot of people don’t have. I could walk two blocks to the little old house you see above and buy fresh vegetables grown in their yard — all without any licensing or health permits.

I feel pretty certain that this must be against city vending ordinances to do it in a residential area, but this older couple have been doing this since before I moved to the neighborhood more than 20 years ago. They’ve lived there in their modest little house since long before an affluent suburb grew up around them. The mayor of this little suburb lives within 50 yards of the house where these folks live, so I’m sure the city knows about it. Even though my little suburb likes to see itself as progressive and upscale these days, it leaves these people alone. Why? I assume it’s because they’ve been doing it for so long and because the people who live nearby actually like it.

This older couple aren’t going to win any awards for marketing or merchandising displays, but there’s something reassuring and honest about their little operation. I was thinking last night — not for the first time — that what they do is a perfect example of how commerce works when the state doesn’t give orders.

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There’s a new royal baby. Have you heard? (It’s a prince, by the way.) Your reaction to this news probably puts you into one of two camps.

Those in one camp find it strangely fascinating and they’re eager to hear more about it. Those in the other camp not only couldn’t care less, but are actively irritated by the event being treated as noteworthy. Count me among the second group.

It’s easy to make fun of interest in the royal family. I’ve done my share of it in the past and I’ve been seeing a lot of it again lately because of the birth of this child. But something hit me Monday that’s making me think about it in a new way. I’m not certain I’m right, but I suspect there’s truth to it.

Lurking inside almost everyone is a desire for someone to tell us what to do and take care of us. Consciously or not, most people have a deep need for someone to be “in charge.” I suspect that interest in royalty of any kind is a remnant of a desire that’s played itself out for hundreds or thousands of generations of our ancestors.

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Amelia died at 2:34 p.m. Monday. She was in my arms purring for her last half hour of life. She didn’t seem to be in pain. She simply stopped breathing.

She was the ultimate lap cat. For the last couple of years, she and Sonny had constantly competed for lap time. After I unexpectedly lost Sonny about a month ago, she had me all to herself again. For several weeks, so took advantage of it, jumping into my lap and purring loudly anytime I sat at my desk.

I’ve told the story of how she came to live with me 13 years ago, so I won’t repeat that. And I wrote this morning about how the animals I’ve rescued have really done more to rescue me than the other way around, so I won’t belabor that point, although it might be more true of her than of some of the others. So I’ll just say a few things about this particular little girl who has meant so much to me.

My experience is that male cats are sweeter and friendlier and that the females are more skittish and untrusting. (I’ve found something of the reverse with dogs, where females are sweeter and males can tend to be more aloof.) In this respect, Amelia was more like a male cat. She quickly trusted me and wanted a tremendous amount of attention. She was the first animal who came to live with me after I divorced 13 years ago, so she was always something of a line of demarcation between the past and the future for me. (Of my remaining cats, only William was with me when I was married.)

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