CHAPTER TWENTY
Soulard Market was the largest Farmer’s Market in St. Louis. Full of covered rows, it stretched out for entire city blocks.
Bo fought for a parking space in the crowded lot. We entered the long, inviting brick building a-swell with crowds of people wandering around with baskets of fruit and vegetables.
I could tell you all about how I brought my grandmother here every Saturday. She loved driving her scooter down the long rows lit up by fluorescent bulbs that seemed to go on forever. She always bought pig’s feet and chitterlings. Bought ‘em by the bucket load. Nana spent so much money here, she could have owned stock in the place.
I could also tell you all about the saxophone and guitar players that played for change—seemed like no matter when you came, there was always a
