We are children of the Moscow Food Coop. The Coop is in our blood, our bones, and our hearts.

When I first met Mary and winning her love was all I could think about, Thursday nights was date night, and it consisted of volunteering together at the Moscow Food Coop. At the time, the Coop occupied Third Street's quirky old Kentucky Fried Chicken building.

We'd saddle up together, side by side. Our volunteer task was "chip bagger." A chip bagger re-bags the different varieties of tortilla chips, which came in ten-pound bags, into smaller one-pound or so bags for resale to members. We became what we considered connoisseurs of the fine art of chip bagging. We'd banter back and forth about the quality of this week's chips, reminiscing about the day's happenings, and eye all the new products for sale in the Coop.

We volunteered in the evenings after work in the Coop's funky atmosphere, compounded by the packed jumble in every nook and cranny stuffed with eclectic, organic products. The aura in the cluttered repurposed KFC building worked some powerful mojo on Mary because forty years later, we're married and still reminisce about our time as coop chip baggers.

Now we live nestled between wheat fields on the eastern edge of the Palouse. The Palouse is the dry-land farming region of southeastern Washington spilling into Idaho, which is famous for growing wheat and legumes.

Travel is not something we often do, but when we do, it is usually a road trip to the big city of Spokane, Washington, about two hours north. No trip feels complete unless we stop at the Moscow Food Coop on our way through Moscow and stop again on the return.

The ritual of bracketing travel with visits to the Coop started innocently. Our original justification was to get some travel supplies; a pesto cheese roll, Stacy's Pita Chips, carbonated water, or a Salted Caramel Dark Chocolate Almond Kind Bar or two. The ritual evolved as we aged. Now we find the Coop at the perfect interval for bathroom breaks, and while there, we quickly check on what is new in the produce section.

There is no driving past the Coop. Before we can take time to think about what we are doing, we stop, find our bodies already in motion, and begin to discern the rhythm of our ritual. A rhythm etched in our psyche. The rhythm resonates with comfort, echoes the seasons, and builds connections with place and community.

We are children of the Coop. The Coop is in our blood, our bones, and our hearts.

Flash Non-fiction filed under the "Is this anything?" category, a wild idea for your consideration in roughly 500 words, give or take.