Yesterday I went to a farmer’s market. You know what’s hard to find in a farmer’s market? Farmers and anything actually grown on a farm.
They had booth after booth of healing lotions, strawberry tarts, and crafty little trinkets. They had a trampoline for the kids. I walked around a full twenty minutes before I found anything that resembled organic produce.
They had a massage booth. I remember taking a tour of a farm when I was a kid in school. We saw goats and chickens and crops. I seem to have forgotten the part where they harvest massage booths. But I guess it’s nice to know that massages are in season.
I kept thinking I would stumble across a terrified farmer, huddled near the back:
“I’m Farmer Ted. Please buy my fruits and vegetables.”
“Why are you stuck back here?”
“I’m a farmer, and they want farmers to keep a low profile at a farmer’s market.”
“Sometimes Northern California sucks, doesn’t it.”
“Let me tell you, farmers used to be somebody. Hate daylight savings? Tough, it helps us with our crops. Hated getting up early for school and going home at 3 pm? Too bad, it’s so kids can help their folks with the harvest. John Mellencamp used to do concerts for us, for Christ’s sake. Now nobody wants us here unless we’re selling beads or giving psychic readings.”
On a completely unrelated note, my father has apparently been keeping a blog. Three posts in nine months do not constitute a high rate of output, but at least he’s got something else to do besides mouth off in my comments. (Note: People with pro-life sensibilities may want to shy away of the middle post. And repeat to yourself: It’s only the Internet. It’s only the Internet.)
Posted by Greg at 07:16 PM. Filed under:
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dude, the best psychic reading i ever got came from a farmer. he smelled like lavender oil. and a little bit like sheep. he said my future would be corny.*
what’s up with that blog? i got no posts at all, just links and things like “cool, i set this up!”
*sorry.
Spring is near and the massages are just coming to the peak of ripeness.
You can tell if a massage is ripe if it makes a solid noise when you flick it with your fingernail. At their peak, they’re so fresh that it’s best to enjoy them by themselves or maybe with a bit of lightly scented oil.
I’ll mouth off all I want, thank you very much. You can edit me out if you feel the need.
Farmer’s Markets: in Ukiah, they used to enforce a rule that only locally grown or produced products could be sold. Since the ownership of the market changed last year, I don’t know if that’s still true.
P.S. The kids ARE organic produce.
When I lived in S.F. I used to take Bart over the bay to Oakland and go to Jack London..Yummm , really realy good fruit.Oh they had salmon jerky as well. from salmon farmers? Must have been a bitch to herd those things.
You don’t herd salmon, you school them. The brighter ones anyway.
I like your dad’s blog. Tell him to write more.
(He has to listen to you, right?)
Papa Goose, I could almost hear the slap upside the head.
Here where I live, the farmers market is very farmer-y. All flowers and fruites and veggies and honey and maybe here and there some handwoven baskets or something.
Best farmer’s market ever? Seattle, hands down.
I hope it was an organic massage booth.
I love your dad. Smart cranky old guys are hot.
That rocks that your dad is a blogger. I’m really into it.
He’s a doctor AND a lawyer?
Told you. If there is a band at the farmers’ market, it’s all over for the vegetables.