The Pomegranate – Part II

“Hi Mr. Dago”, I said brightly, approaching the counter with a big grin and feeling thankful for the warmth. He was one of my favorite people on Cicero Avenue. He couldn’t have been more than five feet tall and just about as wide. His face was always flushed red as if he had been standing over a hot stove and his head was bald on top and just as red as his face, with a ring of jet black hair that ran around the outskirts. His clothes never varied, black shoes, black pants, white shirt and a big white butcher’s apron wrapped around and tied in the back. I never saw him smoke, but he always had a cigar stub in his mouth. He sat down his coffee cup as I approached.

“Whadaya doin Miss P? It’s winter here and you run around with no coat …whatsamatta witchu?” He arched his eyebrows and threw his hand up in the air for punctuation. He knew I lived upstairs and his smile told me he was only having fun. “What’ll it be tonight?” “A quart of milk please”, and he had it on the counter almost by the time I got the words out. I handed my dollar over the counter to him and he punched the big keys on the cash register. As he slid the change over to sit beside the bottle of milk, he said, “Hey Miss P – ya ever had a pomegranate?” I slowly shook my head and replied I’d never even heard of one. He came out from behind the counter and smiled down at me as if he had already known what my answer would be.

I followed his footsteps as he walked over to the produce bins where the old lady was still massaging the oranges. He picked up something that looked like a very large misshapen apple from where I stood.

“Take this home and after supper you gonna have you mama cut it down the middle, then she cut it again…you know, so you can get to the seeds…that’s the part you eat. You gonna likea the pomegranate. Tomorrow you gonna come back and you gonna tell me…hey, I likea the pomegranate.”

I took it from him and it was heavy and mysterious looking now that I was able to get a close look. I couldn’t wait to taste it.

“Oh, thank you Mr. Dago”, I said, grinning as I turned to run out the door.

“Wait a minute, wait a minute, where’s the milk? You go home with no milk? Whatsamatta witchu?”

I quickly follow him back over to the counter and watched as he pulled a bag out from underneath.

“Here, now put your pomegranate in with the milk and you gonna hold the bottom, hold the bottom or the milk goes right through. You spill da milk and you mama not gonna let you have the pomegranate. Remember, cut it down the middle and then cut it again-you gonna like it.

I thanked him again and slowly turn to go. “Waitaminit, what about your change-you leave your change on the counter? Whatsamatta witchu? I felt my face get red and thought of what would happen to me if I went home with no change. I quickly turned and stood on my tip-toes to slide the bag back onto the counter and pulled the stack of change over to me as Mr. Dago stood with his hands on his hips slowly chewing on his cigar stub. He broke into a large grin as I slowly counted the change before putting it into my pocket, then he walked to the door and held it open for me. “Thank you for the pomegranate Mr. Dago. Goodnight..”

As I walked in the door Mother called, “Where in the world have you been? Supper’s getting cold and I was about ready to go out looking for you. Did you count the change???…you know how Dagos are.”

Many years were to pass before I realized the significance of the insult I had unknowingly given to the kind old man each time I entered his market. That realization brought with it an awareness of the depth of kindness, compassion and understanding he had given me in return. I have thought of him many times through the years.

I still love pomegranates.