Not long ago I got thinking about the time when my grandparents had a stand at the St. Lawrence Market in Toronto. It was a mysterious, far-away place to me, where truckloads of produce, loaded up the evening before, magically disappeared.
When I was seven or eight, Granny allowed me to go with her and Granddad to the market for the first time. In those days, the north market was a vast building with soaring ceilings and drafts everywhere. Granny kept a little kerosene stove behind their stand for warmth, and I’m happy to have that little heater now.
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