“I’m so sorry. It’s
just the way it’s got to be,” she blew a mouthful of warm air into her chapped
hands, and smiled sympathetically.
The wind gusted in response and we both ducked into our
collars. It was sleeting now. We hunkered next to her trailer, in the gritty
parking lot where local Farmers’ Market vendors gather weekly, May through
October.
But now, it was January – that dim, icky, muddy month
when I often find myself apathetically eating chocolate for lunch and lusting
after any amount of sunshine. The only
reason I was out in this horrid weather was to meet this sweet woman, to buy her
eggs and beef and cheese. And to talk
with her, even for a few minutes.
She’s a regular vendor here. Everyone loves her products. So much, in fact, that she comes here monthly
even during wintertime.
We moved here five months ago. As a military family, we relocate often, and
I always find myself irritated at the vastly different grocery costs. ($3.50/lb. for a red bell pepper? Are you serious?!)
And this last move was extra chaotic. Endless date-changes meant that we arrived at
our new home just hours before the moving company did. We hadn’t even seen our house before then; we
had signed the lease over email, with a prayer and some maniacal laughter. Totally sleep-deprived after a hectic,
cross-country drive, we barely managed to sign the delivery paperwork correctly. We didn’t open a single box. We simply drove back to our hotel and tried
to coax our one-year old daughter to (please, please, please) go to sleep in
yet another strange place.
I’m not very good at transitions. And we’ve lived in four states in the last
four years. But, Farmers’ Markets help to
soften my transitions.
I discovered this when we were stationed in rural
Idaho. Our tiny town held their own
version of a Farmers’ Market every Saturday morning, until noon. It was a jumble of used-gun peddlers, tomato plant
sellers, school bake sales, and “Free To A Good Home” kittens. An unofficial rummage sale on one end, and
food on the other. Basically, everyone
came. Parking could be impossible, and
you had to shield your child from the dust, whenever the train went by. It was true prairie living.
But, these were fantastic people. The sort who really would do anything for
you, even if you were a total stranger. I
met Cathy, an upbeat mom to eight kids, there.
She and her husband, Todd, had always wanted their own farm, so they
finally moved to Idaho and bought some affordable land. She was industrious and kind and optimistic,
but battle-weary after two years trying to raise goats amid searing winds and
few grazing opportunities. I had a tiny
infant, and a husband who had just returned from a deployment, with an altered
personality and a lot of anger.
She and I connected.
In between goat’s milk transactions, we would swiftly exchange ideas and
encouragement. I had never farmed and she
had never been a military wife, but it worked.
Sometimes, she learned more about my insecurities than my best friends
knew. It was easier to tell her,
somehow. When we finally left Idaho, it
was on a Saturday and we stopped at the Farmers’ Market one last time. I sentimentally bought an apron, and fought
tears for an hour after we drove away. Felt
like I was leaving family.
At other markets, too – amidst the turmeric and eggplant,
I’ve admitted to concerns about infertility, failures as a parent, struggles
with marriage, and self-concept, and contentment, and purpose. It’s almost embarrassing to realize how much
I’ve shared with strangers. But, most of
the time, they don’t merely recommend I buy their raw honey or aromatic
oils. They respond honestly, and
frankly, and empathetically. They
acknowledge life as it really is. It’s
cheering, to be around them.
So, within hours of arriving in this new state, we intentionally
found the local market. It was held every
Wednesday, 10:00 a.m.–2:00 p.m. It was a
smaller than most, only a dozen farmers, ranchers, and cheerful sock-knitters. But, there was Sarah, the sweet Mennonite
woman who sold eggs and beef and cheese.
I often wonder if she’s an outcast in her own culture for
driving a truck, owning a cell phone, spendinging annual family vacations in a
Florida beach house. But, I’ve never
asked. Somehow, that seems too
personal. Ironic, considering all we do
talk about. She knows about my
miscarriages. I know about their
finances. I pray for her family, and she
does for ours.
I’m unsure why it’s been so natural to confide in these
kind merchants. Maybe I’m desperate. But, I don’t think so. I have loyal girlfriends and a great husband
and I’m really close to my mom. We
attend a wonderful church, full of caring people. It isn’t because I’m deficit in gratifying
relationships.
I think perhaps it’s because these people – who
purposefully wrestle with stiff soil and unpredictable weather, who knit their
own gloves, sculpt trees into benches, harvest honey from bees, and work seven
days every week pursuing hard-but-admirable goals – are generally high quality
people. They typically aren’t here to exploit
you. They usually just want to cultivate
better food, better products, cleaner relationships between industry and consumer. They want to improve life. They seem safe.
Recently, while visiting a Farmers’ Market with us, my
Mother-In-Law couldn’t find her phone. I
instantly reassured her, “Oh, don’t worry – if you lost it here, I’m sure
someone will turn it in. No one here
would steal.” Turned out, she left it in
the car, so we never got to test out that theory, but hearing my own idealistic
reply alerted me to the level of trust I had unconsciously developed, for
better or worse.
Also, I think this subculture lends continuity to my
world. Regardless of region, it seems
like the Farmers’ Market climate is pretty consistent. Judgment is low here; it’s a nice
counterpoint to my first-impression oriented military world. Yet somehow, opinions and perspective flow
freely too.
Last week, when I confessed to Sarah what a horrible week
we’d had, she hugged me like a sister.
“I’m so sorry! How hard! Are you ok?”
She really meant it. And I genuinely
wanted to know how she was managing, after last month when they’d lost sixty
head of cattle one week before “market.”
After a bit of mutual commiseration, she touched my arm
and urged softly, “Let’s just remember – we humans don’t ever realize how much
we need God during the smooth times. We
seem to understand it better, during the dark days. I’m not sure why that is, but I guess we need
struggle.”
“And for that, I’m so sorry. It’s just the way it’s got to be.”
I nodded, mulling that over. “It sure is cold today,” I offered to bridge the silence.
“Yes,” she chuckled. “But, I suppose we should expect
that, being winter and all.”
Acceptance. That’s
all what these people have. They don’t
fight nature like I do. Maybe that’s what I’m longing for.
