I’d always been against farmer’s markets. Maybe against was too harsh. I’d been uncertain about them, at the very least. I just hadn’t given them an honest exploration. They just seemed to pop up in parking lots, I didn’t know when they were (the weekend, Wyatt, duh), they just seemed … not for someone who was allergic to a lot of foods.
But I see now there is something to the experience — within an older tradition of exchange — that you were (perhaps) buying directly from the person who pulled the food from the earth, and that crunchy organic farmer with the tattoos and earthen fabric could give you a discount on the cauliflower based on how she looked at them and how they looked.
The basket full, standing to wait for a table in front of the old-time string band, a couple has their phones out, taking my picture.
“Oh, every time I come with that basket, people take my picture. They love that basket.”
Across the parking lot, three sheriffs were handcuffing, as kindly as they could, a manic episode who minutes earlier had been shouting at the aloe vera plants in the botanical garden, pulling his underwear back up to his otherwise bare and tan waistline, crying and cursing at the dirt.