Market Day

Sunny all day through, temperature stuck to the low 70Fs.


Action packed day. I pulled up to the farm store to find the boys were out with Bah and Old Rudolpho pulling potatoes-- so I got up to my own business. Strolled down to the greenhouse, checked on the seedlings, and filled the trimmer with fuel. Got down to the trellised tomatoes and started clearing the aisle ways-- the grass/weeds had grown to 5ft tall in places. It was slow going-- hacking down a jungle and precisely trying to avoid tomatoes/plastic wrap are terrible tasks to attempt at the same time. Inched along and finished up the 25 rows (after several refuelings) just before lunch.


After a leisure lunch, I milled around out back waiting for the boss. Went into the bathroom and scrubbed off the hours of shredded weeds/dirt caked on my arms/hands/face. Changed into a clean set of clothes and the boss pulled up.  We packed up the van for market, we brought: 4 tables, tent, cash box, crate of bags/elastics/cellophane, 1 box of tomatoes, 2 trays of raspberries, 1 tray of blueberries, one milk crate packed with jam, 2 big boxes of pies (large sized and the smaller individual type), 1 tray of cherry tomatoes (half purples, half reds), 1 crate of beets, 1 big basket of string beans, 1 big basket of cucumbers, 1 big basket of pickling cukes, 1 bushel box of zuchini, bushel of summer squash, half bushel of kousa/patty pan, 1 big bushel of green peppers and 6 burlaps full of corn. All loaded up, we set out for market in the next town over.

I worked 50/50 last year, half the time in the fields and half the times at markets-- so I know all the set ups and all the sellers pretty well. I always like this market. It's set up in an olde tyme town center in a farmy old town with a chip on its shoulder (Big Boy lives here). The market is held on the town green, beneath big oaks-- there's a band stand, a big old congregational church, store fronts, the library and all that sort. All the regulars were back-- the old folks in the stall beside us were real glad to see me back.

One of 'em is a big ol' lady (a retired school teacher) who bakes real good sweets out of her house-- cookies are caked in butter, lard, molasses and salt. She's the sort of old woman who is serious, the sort who gets suspicious, silent and stares when people act too friendly. Her little brother (in his 60s) is the bull dog. He is a big fella and can't walk too well but still helps his sister set up all her backed goods and hangs around to chat up customers/anyone in earshot. He works as a security guard for a theater in the dumpy former-industrial city I live near (just a quick swim across the polluted, dead body filled lake).  The baker and her brother took me under their wing last year, which is a precarious thing (all the locals hardly tolerate 'em). The brother must have thought I was homeless/parentless/or just too skinny-- every Thursday last fall, he'd without fail bring me a large milk/sugar coffee and a big McDonald's cheeseburger. He'd turn red and get furious whenever I tried to pay him-- so I learned to shut up and eat. Last year the baker decided that farms, the sun and fields, were no place for a good young man-- so she took it as her mission to find me a 'proper' trade. Well, I refused all the security jobs, electrician/plumbing apprenticeships, but she still packed my pockets full of cookies and cake every Thursday. Good folks.

So the boss and I set up the tent, got the tables up and arranged the goods. I don't know how good or bad I am out in the fields, but I know this-- I can sell a person the food in their own stomach. I just don't like doing it. All the same, the boss was happy to have me out again making him money, he slapped me on the back and said-- go to it ace. Then he hopped in the van to go mind the farm.

I got the stall arranged to my liking then caught up with the baker and her brother. Nothing's changed, except now she has a framed picture on her table-- inside is a man's picture, with the words '(whatever-the-guy's name is) of Pawn Stars love (the baker's) cookies and a jumble of signatures. Apparently these TV stars gave a little history show at the brother's theater and the baker sent the stars boxes of her homemade cookies-- and they loved them enough to send a signed picture saying that they did. The baker was very, very proud of the picture.

Start time came and the market heads walked around ringing a big bell to signal that we could start selling-- the people came and I sold.

The boss really needs to print some business cards or something. I scribbled down the farm address and phone # for countless families all day long. Seems that many Lebanese families are settling in the area and can't find good kousa squash-- but we got it and cut it just how they like it. Unfortunately, they want it in bulk-- 60-80 squash at a go. The first family cleared me out.

Our market stall is a crowed place, but I move real fast-- I call aloud the price math to the customer so they can check my numbers (I could kill the boss for pricing things at $1.20/$.90/$1.10 a lb.). There's no calculators here so everything's left to my head. Had 15-20 people lined up to pay at one point-- busy, busy.

Things lull out from time to time, which give me a chance to chat with customers/answer their questions about tomatoes/our farming practices/the weather this spring. I take a real sick pleasure in telling people we're not an organic farm-- watching their reaction is a special kind of entertainment. In my defense, certain markets poisoned me last year-- the politics of organic farming is a petty and vicious thing. You can almost predict a person's reaction based solely on their haircut (90% accuracy), but then again markets make me a terrible person.

A new seller came by to chat during the mid-afternoon doldrums. I'll call him Stone-J (his face is rock slab, his name starts with J), think I might be seeing a lot more of this guy. I like the guy/seethe a bit in jealousy. Stone-J is about my age and just leased out 25 acres from the town land trust this year. With his girlfriend/friends he is doing it. He rented a place in town, got a small cub tractor and has 10 acres of organic veggies coming on a wet hilltop. He bought a round of beef cow this spring, setting them on the remaining 15 acres to keep it clear of brush/fatten 'em up over summer-- he'll sell them this fall for a tight profit (certainly can't afford to winter a herd). Stone-J has a big ol' beard and an easy disposition-- he did some program in environmental sciences before leaping on his lease land. We hit it off famously. Shot the breeze on all types of crop/soil/and such. He gave me his card, and I said hey friend-- if you ever need a hand over the weekend, I'm your guy. We shook on it and he showed me his veggie-stall spread. I gotta remember to shoot him an internet message-- I wanna get up close with those cows of his. Maybe my jealous son reflex was tingling-- the boss has stepped in to mentor Stone-J, helping him survey the plot/select crops suitable for his soil and organic disposition/ get into the market line-up/ join the farmer's union.
Yes, I am just plan green in jealousy.

I sold out. Sold all 6 sacks of corn, all the sting beans, all the pies, all the peppers, all the beets, all the tomatoes (and cherries), all the berries, all the jam but one (a 10oz of Peach-raspberry), all the cucumber and pickling cukes, all the zucchini and all the summer squash/kousa. Only a handful of patty pan remained. Selling a full basket/tray/box is nothing-- selling the scattered dregs of string beans is something. But not something hard. People love to haggle, so I haggle them. A mother and her baby walked by and I gave her the last handful of string beans for free. Another woman came by and I talked her into the last sad looking bunch of beets at 50% off. Gave another woman the last 4 corn for free. Hahaha, so I'm not much of a bargainer-- but every one of those customers were so happy they talked with me 15 minute and walked off with the farm's address. But what's a single bunch of beets, a few corn, a few string beans, a couple kousa or a single cucumber? So I sold out the way I always did last year-- when there's nothing left, give away what is.

The market bell rang again and the stalls shut down. The boss's daughter ran by, emptied my cash box and ran to the bank. I piled up the empty bags/boxes, folded up the tent/table and waited for the boss. He drove up and we packed everything into the van. The boss was happy to see the empty boxes, but happier to hear the profit number (I'm not giving away any business details, but I pulled well over the big 1-- which is the mark of a good day). I more than covered everyone's payroll for the day--yehaw!

The sun was down by the time we got back to the farm store and unpacked the van. Homeward bound.
A little part of me misses doing the markets, a very little part.


Aside: While pulling out of the farm the boss's daughter yelled after me, but I didn't really hear her and kept on going. The boss called me as I was going through the 400acre fields surrounding the vet school-- his daughter saw I had one big ol' flat tire. Pulled over into the field and flipped out the flat-- put on the spare and had a long cigarette in the grass. What a day.

Back to the fields tomorrow and glad to be-- can't have the boys think I've gone soft, can I?

Take it easy.