The Art of Being Consistent - Marcia

Monday through Friday between 1:00 and 1:15 an angular old gentleman, heavily stooped, headed at a determined pace down the sidewalks of East Main Street, over the Bear Creek Bridge, to his lunch spot—my husband’s restaurant, Deli Down. On the rare occasion that he drove, he selected a beater, mud-clotted Datsun pick-up. He wore pretty much the same attire year-round, adding a v-neck sweater in winter to his khakis, button down shirt, and sensible brown shoes. His name was Dunbar Carpenter. He was 92 years old. He was my husband’s customer for twenty years.

His order was always the same: veggie sandwich with mustard, lettuce, tomato, and cheddar, fruit salad, and milk. On Fridays he whooped it up a little bit by adding bacon to his sandwich.

Fruit salad is not on the menu. But after ten years of eating his greens, either Dunbar got bored, or his doctor told him to up his fiber. Somehow it happened that for the last decade Dunbar’s fruit salad got made fresh every morning. His white soup bowl mounded with mango and honeydew was stored in the walk-in near the wrapped packets of mozzarella and smoked cheddar until the bandy-legged man appeared in the doorway with his Harvard Review tucked under his arm.

Dunbar never placed an order. As soon as his name was called out in greeting the crew set into motion putting his lunch together. My husband usually carried out the tray both as a sign of respect, and to banter with him about pollinating our pears, weird fungus on the Sweet Millions, and how far apart to plant the corn.

Up and Comers, Movers and Shakers eyed Dunbar’s fruit salad with envy and understood why he went straight to his table without needing to stand with the dozens of others at the counter. The unknowing were clueless as to who the quiet old guy with the newspaper was, and why he was treated with almost hushed reverence by those who wished they had the nerve to “network” with him. This was just not done. He had a trusted circle, and it was accepted that they could talk across tables with him if the Deli wasn’t too crowded.

Dunbar was one of Medford’s, if not the valley’s, heaviest hitters. The Carpenter Foundation or Carpenter Family name is inscribed on everything of significance in this region. I’m not kidding, everything. His property, comprised of pear orchards, grape vines, and pastures, cuts a wide swath through what used to be the outskirts of Medford. It now delineates the old rich from the new, now housed in their McMansions on the petticoats of Roxy Ann Peak.

There was no denying Dunbar’s influence, but for us he was mostly part of our “Deli family”-- One of those customers that over time just became part of the fabric of our lives.

The beauty of the daily ritual, the ordinary schedule, the simple routine is that mountains can be made, friendships can be forged, old vines can bear their fruit-- Dunbar’s greatest lesson for a serendipitous gal like me.

One of our favorites died this week. I’m sure for some time to come I’ll imagine I see him walking bent and bandy, over the Bear Creek Bridge. I know my husband will pause in his morning routine as he automatically starts to pick out a good melon for Dunbar.