Some stories I’m compelled to share, this is one.
We set up at the Florence Mill Farmer’s Market on Sunday. Intent on pedaling all sorts of Bar None goodness. The jeep fairly bursting with bounty, no room for our pop up tent. Pull up, set up, we are getting pretty good at this. Our assigned spot, our neighbors, there’s your story.
Two sisters and a niece. Combined weight of eleven hundred to twelve hundred pounds, the youngest tipping in at an easy 280, mom and auntie picking up the bulk. They told us the sun would be nigh and high. Littlest miss scrambles wordlessly, big blur of engineering efficiency. In an instant a 10 x 10 tent erected over our little table, chairs for us both.
They had their own set up professionally dialed in. Two abutting tents. “Welcome to the Mall, all kinds of interesting things, come on in out of the sun!” Auntie, never leaving her chair up front, offering endless commentary as she knitted “Coasters or Barbie Rugs” out of recycled plastic grocery bags. Hawking “Mystery Bags, Only $1!, Worth at least $2!” “Aloe and Tinctures too! ”
Mom, her chair equipped with custom made leg stanchions, large platforms that kept the spindles from immediately sinking into the overmatched earth. Rising at one point, lumbering into the distance. Returning within the hour, multiple KFC lunch specials precariously perched on her walker. With a hero, Preston Love Jr., steadying her elbow all the way to her landing pad. Fair exchange for signature on his ballot petition for Metro Community College Board position.
As nice a trio of lasses that you could ever hope to set up next to.
Another fella, six foot six and in his 70s. I asked if he used to be a high jumper. Which began a tale of how he was run over by a car, pinned overnight against a building at 16th and Lake, over 60 years ago. His eyes drifting off, painfully reflecting as he recounted the tale.
Farm to Market. Its the seasoning of Market that provides the spice to our efforts.