36 animal, vegetable, miracleour swimsuits would not make it happen here. “Strawberries will be com-
ing in soon,” I said, recognizing this as possibly the first in a long line of
pep talks to come.
The question remained, What about now?
“Look,” I said, “the farmers’ market opens this Saturday. We’ll go see
what’s there.” Around the table went the Oh sure, Mom face that mothers
everywhere know and do not love.
/Saturday dawned dark, windy, and fiercely cold. The day’s forecast was
for snow. Spring had been slapped down by what they call around here
“dogwood winter,” a hard freeze that catches the dogwoods in bloom—
and you thinking you were about to throw your sweaters into the cedar
chest. April fool.
The cold snap was worrisome for our local orchards, since apple and
peach trees had broken dormancy and blossomed out during the last two
sunny weeks. They could lose the year’s productivity to this one cold spell.
If anybody was going to be selling fruit down at the farmers’ market today,
in the middle of blasted dogwood winter, I’d be a monkey’s uncle. Never-
theless, we bundled up and headed on down. We have friends who sell at
the market, some of whom we hadn’t seen in a while. On a day like this
they’d need our moral support.
It was a grim sight that met us in the parking lot. Some of the vendors
huddled under awnings that snapped and flapped like the sails of sinking
ships in a storm. Others had folded up their tents and stood over their
boxes with arms crossed and their backs to the mean wind. Only eight
vendors had turned out today, surely the bravest agricultural souls in the
county, and not another customer in sight. What would they have this
early, anyway—the last of last year’s shriveled potatoes?
Hounded by the dogs of Oh sure, Mom, I made up my mind to buy
something from everyone here, just to encourage them to come back next
week. My farm advocacy work for the day.
We got out of the car, pulled our hoods over our ears, and started our
tour of duty. Every vendor had something better than shriveled potatoes.
Charlie, a wiry old man who is the self- appointed comedian of our mar-