Notes from the Farmstand

The Importance of Our Stories

May 2, 2024

Notes From The Farmstand

I looked up from my work at the produce stand to see a set of chaps and boots. 

I knew that stance. Even though I couldn’t see the upper half of the man standing in the middle of four lanes of traffic, I knew who it was. 

I ducked my head to see below the trailer awning and hoped to get a better view.  

"Mike," I whispered excitedly while frantically tapping his leg "That's him! That's Crazy Horse!" 

"Who?”  Mike seemed agitated by my leg tapping, not to mention he probably thought I had lost my mind.  

 “Crazy Horse?” he questioned.  

"You know!” I retorted with irritation. “That scary guy I told you about that came to the produce stand a few days ago. He calls himself Crazy Horse." 

My eyes remained fixed on the man who now strode like the warrior he imagined himself to be. He crossed the last two lanes of moving traffic without looking right or left. He stopped abruptly at a table of freshly picked corn, stacked to resemble a pyramid.  His feet were spread to the width of his rigid shoulders and he held his head with his chin slightly elevated in a display of implied confidence.

Previously, when he had been at the stand, I had been alone. He had hung around for quite a long time trying to seduce me with boxes of stale raisins. I tried discouraging his advances and was greatly relieved when he left. It seemed to me he was mentally unstable and his comments along with the extremist bumper stickers on his Ford Ranger made me nervous.  

Mike and I waited for what seemed like forever, Crazy Horse refusing to look at Mike while he stared at the corn pyramid. Finally, without saying a word to us, he turned sharply, sauntered again across the four lanes of moving traffic, jumped into his truck, and drove away. Perhaps he decided I wasn’t his type after all. Mike’s muscled, farmer’s physic might have discouraged further engagement. Or, he could have been considering that he didn’t need any corn on that particular day. At any rate, we never saw Crazy Horse again.

Mike sold produce years before I met him. Mike enjoyed serving and interacting with customers as much as he enjoyed planting and harvesting the crops. While everything about it invigorated my extroverted husband, a day of social interaction with produce customers always left me exhausted and wanting to hide for a few days. Despite finding it difficult to interact daily with customers, I recognized that people were gifting us with a tiny piece of their lives as they bought vegetables from us. I tried my best to greet each person with a smile and a kind word. With a good night’s sleep and a large cup of coffee, I could even be excited about seeing folks in the mornings, at least for a while. As the day progressed, however, the temperature in the trailer would rise to what felt like 100 degrees with 100 percent humidity. When I had moved another box of produce weighing what felt like 100 pounds and the 100^th customer of the day made their way to the counter to be served, I often felt like I couldn’t smile one more time or exact another measure of kindness. I did it anyway. 

One day, an elderly woman who was gruff and not given to compliments said, "I've been telling everyone about your produce. Do you know why?" 

Looking her in the eye, I asked, "Why are you telling everyone about us?” 

She replied, "Because you are genuinely nice and there aren't many people in business who are nice anymore." 

I smiled and thanked her. It was good to know that simple kindness and professional courtesy could still make a statement. In her gruff, direct manner she had unknowingly offered my spirit the hug it needed that day. 

Other customers unintentionally brought laughter to my day with their naivety about farming. One gentleman said innocently, “You don’t look like a farmer.” 

“What is a farmer supposed to look like?” I retorted. 

“You know,” he said hesitantly “not so clean. Shouldn’t you be sweaty and dirty like you’ve been working?” 

I responded to this with a laugh. “I do shower after I milk the cows, slop the hogs, gather produce from the garden, and before I get to the farmstand at 8 am,” I said.  

There was also the time a little girl came to the stand with her dad and surveyed things for a few minutes before she asked him, “Daddy, do you think farming is hard work?”  

Without hesitation, her father replied, “That’s why we buy our vegetables here, darling!” He looked at me and winked. I broke into laughter that startled the little girl. 

One day, an elderly couple came to the stand hand in hand. They talked and teased each other. The woman looked at her husband with twinkling eyes and said, "I'm almost out of money, do you have any?" 

He returned her smile and said, "No." 

She responded, "You do too. Let me see your pockets." 

The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a coin. Grinning, he displayed it to his wife. 

Pointing to me the wife said, "Show her!" 

A silver dollar, smooth and worn, was held in the palm of his hand. As he gestured toward his wife, he said "I've carried this in my pocket since I met her." 

She smiled like a schoolgirl and said, "We've been married 61 years." 

The husband patted the coin, which had been returned to his pocket, and said, "It's my good luck charm." 

The lady laughed, "No, I'm your good luck charm." 

He smiled and responded softly, "Yes, you are." 

As this story played out before my eyes, I understood that the participants had rehearsed it before various audiences, time and again. Still, I knew how blessed I was to be chosen as their audience that day.  

While we cared for the community (which was how our customers felt about the availability of locally grown, fresh produce), the community cared for us. They brought snacks or offered to pick up lunch. Folks would stop to make sure I was ok and ask if I had anything to drink. The new coffee shop down the road brought me lemonade and the elderly man who owned the building next door would bring me bottled water. Everyone called him by his initials. EJ found out that my son, Josh, had died and he shared with me that he and his wife also had experienced the death of a son. He invited Mike and me out to eat on our day off and we sat in a cool restaurant with EJ and his wife connecting on a deeper level.  

The world is desperate to be heard and when we listen, people will share their deepest hurts and greatest joys. Almost daily, people I barely knew shared their joys and sorrows with me while they bought fruits and vegetables. I held in my arms women I didn’t know who cried over the death of a child. I put a sympathetic hand on the shoulder of a man going through a nasty divorce. I listened to military veterans describe events they didn’t often share with others as I opened my heart to their pain. I listened with empathy as parents told me of children who had strayed and were involved in lives that would leave everyone hurting. I rejoiced over the upcoming weddings of couples I had just met. I petted puppies and carried bags of produce. I consoled crying babies and tried to distract hyperactive children. I sometimes heard complaints and had a few angry customers that I either had to pacify or stare down, depending on the circumstance. The days were often filled with teasing, laughter, and goodwill to balance any sadness or angst that found its way to the surface.

 Some arrived immaculately dressed and driving expensive sports cars. Others came dirty from a day’s work and driving a beat-up truck. Some came on motorcycles wearing leather jackets. Some women came scantily clothed and others covered modestly in clothing meant to conform to religious standards. Parents brought well-behaved children and kids who couldn’t control themselves. Senior adults stumbled across the parking lot with canes and walkers dragging oxygen machines behind them while college-age students jumped from their cars. Some customers had been preparing fresh produce for decades and others left the produce stand to buy pots and pans because they had never previously cooked anything from scratch.  

I was alone one day when a drunk, homeless man came to the stand. Almost instantly I developed a deep empathy for this kind man who, in the days ahead, would continue to visit and talk with me. I began gifting him healthy snacks of fresh fruit and vegetables he could eat without elaborate preparation. He especially liked the fresh tomatoes. Together, we discussed the secrets of a great tomato sandwich with just the right amount of salt and mayo. His eyes would light up with anticipation. He would swear he was going to the store and would buy a loaf of bread and some mayo to make that sandwich. In my heart, I knew he would most likely spend his money on more beer. He often asked that I put the tomatoes in a bag so he could carry them in one hand and keep the other hand free for his drinks. He said he didn’t want to smash the beautiful tomatoes.

The man was old enough to be my dad, but I mothered him anyway. I instructed him to eat his “maters” before drinking anything else that day. He would search my face with a look that told me he understood that I cared and that he was helpless to do anything different than drink his beer. I welcomed and even looked forward to his visits. When other customers arrived and gave him a sideways glance or stepped away because of the smell that emanated from his body, I didn’t run him off. He was my friend.  

Then, he didn’t come around anymore.

One morning, looking at the Staunton Newsleader online, I gasped and started crying. The article said that my friend’s body had been found in Lewis Creek where he had fallen while inebriated. I wept that day knowing I would no longer be able to chat with him, see his smile, or hand him a bag of free tomatoes. I wondered if anyone else would miss him or care that he was gone.  

I live a different life now, intentionally withdrawn from daily interaction with the public. It suits my introverted nature, but I know I still need community. Interaction can often bring surprising connections. We humans have more in common than we first realize, sharing basic emotions such as sadness, happiness, fear, anger, surprise, and disgust. By connecting through our stories, we find that we are not alone.

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The Importance of Our Stories

Dear Friend,

I find myself seeking a balance between my introverted nature and the need for community. Sometimes it just seems like too much work. It doesn’t always go as we think it should. Communities disagree and even fall apart. Individuals within communities can be hateful and hurtful. If we’re honest, we will admit we are not immune to serving up a homemade recipe of our own arrogant, hurtful behaviors.

Maybe sharing our stories won’t change the world, but it could help a little and in so doing, we may find that we have more in common with one another than we thought. Let’s try to set aside our prejudices and judgemental attitudes, close our eyes, open our hearts, and truly listen while someone shares their story. Then, bravely share your own.

All my love,

Tammy

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News, Articles, and Events

It’s been a busy few months with contractual deadlines, several speaking engagements, and visiting family in addition to daily routines.

Let’s start with the speaking engagements. In March, I was invited to speak at Floyd County Homemakers and it was a lovely event. The ladies there were warm and enthusiastic as I shared stories about my homesteading journey. You can read my presentation at this link. Last week, I returned to Blue Ridge Community College to an event hosted by the Creative Writing Club and sponsored by the Cultural Affairs Committee. We had two high school students, an enthusiastic group of college students, faculty members, and individuals from the great community in attendance. Despite my fear of public speaking, I soon felt comfortable and enjoyed being able to share some of the things I have learned as a freelance writer. Find the presentation I shared with them, From Manuscript to Marketing: The Path to Publication at this link.

Hobby Farms Magazine has published my piece The Decorative and the Delicious which can be found in the May/June edition.

As always, I thank you all for believing in me and for your encouragement as I continue my writing journey. I do not take the gift of your time for granted.