I get trapped in my own bubble as a vendor sometimes. There are so many people who come and go. The old faithful who come the same time every week, whom I can pretty much start bagging up their order as soon as I make eye contact with. Navy guy, fuzzy hat guy, the Ukrainian mother and daughter who taught me how to say hello and thank you in Ukrainian with much laughter all around until I got it right. But for the most part, crowds are simply a blur. I try to laugh and tell stories and make it a enjoyable day for all involved. I also know what it’s like as a customer, so I try to be as fast, efficient, fun, and helpful as I can, especially when I have a line starting to form at my table (that’s about the time I have to wind up my latest story, or Fran will start making comments). On the other hand, it goes both ways. Customers also have to be mindful of what’s going on. I understand that you haven’t seen someone and their family since grade school, but gathering in front of my table for a family reunion is NOT the place to stop and chat. You’re blocking other customers, and I only have a limited time to sell my produce. I have on my computer as a screen saver a picture of me leaning over my market table with a just-make-a decision-lady look on my face as a daily reminder for me to be nice to people.
I had quite the week for customer interaction. First, I had a lady ask if I was the guy with the sweet onions, and if I was going to have them again this year. I swear I’ve never seen this lady before, but obviously she remembered me. I wiped the startled look off my face as best as I could, and said sure, they will be ready in a few weeks. Last year Fran added a description of sweet to the price sign for our yellow Spanish onions, and apparently this customer remembered that. Crazy. You never can tell what is going to stick with people.
Shortly thereafter, I had a young mother come up to my table and ask if I was the guy who sells strawberry plants in the spring. I’m thinking to myself, “Oh no. What did I do this time?” So I guardedly said yes — might as well rip the scab off and get it over with. She brightened right up and told me all about how she and her kids planted the strawberries in the cold ground and watered them and weeded them and how much fun it was to go and pick berries when they wanted. Her kids learned a lot and loved the experience. WHEW. Dodged a bullet there.
Later that same day was when it got real interesting. I seem to have an ear for accents, and try to see if I can determine where a person is from without asking. If I can surprise them and say a few words or a phrase in their native language, we are instant friends for life. It can also get me into trouble, like the time I spoke Ukrainian to a Romanian. No sense of humor there, but we made up for it and are good friends just the same. Anyway, this last market, I had a group of women with and odd accent I had not heard very often, and couldn’t place. After they purchased some zucchini, I asked them where they were from. Suddenly it was like being in a spy movie. They looked around to see who was listening and said in a whisper, “Bloomfield Hills.” I’m thinking malarkey. That’s Detroit. You don’t get that kind of accent in Detroit, but I let it go.
Later, one of the group came back to me and said they were from Israel, and were here visiting family, and had to be careful when they traveled. She told me stories of life in Israel and what happened to her during the attack on Oct. 7. All I could think of was to say my two Hebrew words that I knew: “L’chaim,” which translates as a salute to life (picked up from the musical “Fiddler on the Roof” when I was a kid), and “Shalom,” which broadly means wholeness, completeness, safety, and well being. Well those two words were magical. She smiled at me, blessed me up and down, shook my hands, burst into tears and ran off to meet her friends, leaving me speechless. Which was good as I had exhausted my whole vocabulary. Anyway, it was time to pack up and go home.
Finally, some barnyard economics: Fran and I are guilty of overplanting once again. This time of year we get overwhelmed, and Fran’s go-to is to say “I know, let’s hire someone to help!” Immediately I think of raspberries. We sell a pint of raspberries for $5. To get a pint of raspberries sold at market, we are out in March cutting dead canes on our hands and knees in the cold mud, followed by two or three all day weeding sessions, a day for stringing and tucking in, a day to burn the cane piles, and many hours of picking and sweating and getting scratched up. Then we run them in the cooler overnight and bring them to market. Then IF they sell, we can make five dollars. Not wanting to be known as the Ebenezer Scrooge of farmers, we pay $20/hour for help (mostly the neighbor lady). That equals SELLING 32 pints of raspberries to pay for one day of help. Now we really like the neighbor lady, and she’s thorough, but kinda slow, so while all this is going through my mind, I have that kicked-in-the-you-know-where look on my face and Fran is getting mad at me, but I can’t help it. We are at the stage of our lives, where if we can’t take care of it ourselves, I’d rather just mow it down.
Well the boss just came home. Got to run.
All the best from Alan and Fran at Greenrock Farm