The Farmer's Market 🍗
or, the beginning of an unlikely friendship
I often wander through the fictional small town of Quincy, Texas, looking for stories. This holiday season, I stopped at the weekly farmer’s market in the library parking lot. Hope you enjoy.
I know it can be weary on the eyes to read fiction on a screen, so it’s also here as a free printable download, if that's your preference:
Merry Christmas! Thank you for reading.
-Tsh
It had rained all night and there was still a light drizzle in the air, enough to make folks speed up their typical ambling pace this Saturday morning. The farmer’s market was where some shoppers bought their weekly menu items and considered it an essential part of their grocery getting; most people, however, considered a visit to the public library’s parking lot a “community event” — a way to scratch their itch for feeling quaint and cozy. Fair enough.
I’ve stood at my booth long enough over the years to let go of any disdain I may have once felt for those neighbors at the beginning to recognize their fat wallets and their well-intentioned motives. These middle-aged parents need a reprieve from their cubicles and desk jobs, if even for thirty minutes on a cloudless weekend morning; the single twenty-somethings might initially peruse our offerings to give themselves a pat on the back for buying locally but leave with some New York strips and a tad bit of added hopefulness about the prospect of being an adult. It's fine.
This morning, however, most folks so far are the die-hards, the regulars I see most Saturdays or the odd reader hurrying back to their car with cloth bags laden with their weekly library holds and pausing for a moment to see if there's anything that might pair with a cozy evening by the fire.
“Morning, Max,” said a familiar voice as I set down my coffee. It’s the same mug I used every weekend here, the one I kept in my truck. It’s chipped and yellow and reads Dad jokes? You mean rad jokes! even though it was given to me by Lily and Colson, my grandkids.
“Morning, Brian,” I answered, “How's the live bait business?”
He smiled. “Oh, you know... Fine. Definitely glad it’s the weekend.” He’d told me already what he did for work, but I didn’t understand it. He’s maybe a ...consultant? For some tech company? Or maybe a lawyer. Something that required going to an office, which he disdained.
“M-hmm,” I nodded in understanding, even though my weekend, or at least the first half of my Saturday, was my busiest day of commerce. “Work to live, not live to work, amIright?”
“Yeah…” he trailed off, looking at my chalkboard listing today's offerings. “I'll take a few pounds of ribeye and some bacon. Oh, and a whole chicken if you've got a big one.”
“Pretty sure I do,” I answered, then went to my panoply of coolers on guard behind me. I gathered the steaks and found a fat hen, put her on the digital scale, then opened the cooler on the far side labeled ‘PORK’ in black marker on a piece of tape. “Got bacon wrapped by the pound. How much you want?”
“Let’s go with two,” Brian answered. I grabbed two vacuum-sealed packages and tossed them on top of the steaks. I punched into my calculator the weight on the scale, slid the chicken off and weighed the rest, then did the math I could do in my sleep and spun around the calculator to show Brian. He wordlessly handed me his credit card. I slid it into the white square attached to my phone, which my son Jason helped me set up. I don't know how it worked, but I'm glad it did.
The transaction cleared and I handed him his bag of meat. “Thanks, Brian. And Merry Christmas.”
He heaved the bag into his cooler on wheels. “Yeah, same to you," he answered and rolled off to his next assignment. Usually his route meant Cuppa Joe’s booth next for a bag of beans.
The drizzling stopped and the crowd was light enough to not warrant a line, so I took another sip of coffee and picked up my phone. Customers would queue up soon enough.
No texts yet, so I decided to bite the bullet and do it first. Hey! I tapped out. Merry Xmas Eve! ...What are you and the kids up to today?
I set down my phone as an older couple ambled up. They weren’t familiar to me; she was wearing a Santa-themed sweater with jingling bells and both had felt antlers festooned on their heads.
“Morning,” I offered, “Lose your way from the North Pole?”
They laughed as though it was the funniest thing they'd heard in awhile. “We should probably stay away from you so you don’t serve us up,” said the gentleman.
“Lucky for you I don't butcher them, I just raise ‘em,” I answered. They scanned my menu.
“Got any brisket?” the woman asked.
“Yes, ma’am; a favorite this time of year. Crowd pleaser.”
“Mmm, I bet,” she replied, “It’s what I’m serving this year. Big crowd around our table tomorrow night.”
“Well then,” I said, “How many pounds you after?”
They mumbled to each other. He then asked, “Is that your settled price per pound? Got any special rate for a bigger cut?”
I was used to this. I used to feel guilt, waiver, then negotiate when folks familiar with grocery store prices expressed sticker shock from ranch rates. “I should charge more if I’m honest, sir,” I said, “This cattle is grass-fed, grass-finished, happy cows with good lives. You won’t taste better meat.”
They looked at the menu as though waiting on the prices to magically change. “Well,” she eventually said, then trailed off. She whispered something again to her husband. Then, “…What the heck. It's Christmas. We'll take sixteen pounds.”
“You got it,” I said, then turned toward my coolers game-faced. Internally I celebrated, happy to offload the expensive meats early in the day. Can’t wait to mention this to Jane later, I thought, then my stomach dropped. I quickly pushed it aside.
I heaved the meat onto my scale and showed them the calculator.
“Yikes,” said the man and handed over his card. “Well... It's Christmas,” he reminded himself.
As I ran the card I said, “Now, y’all gonna start this soon? Brisket takes a long while. No refrigeration at this point.”
“Oh, I know what I'm doing,” said the woman, “Got the recipe bookmarked online. He won the latest season of Barbecue Beasts.”
I nodded and handed them the shrink-wrapped slab. “Oof!” she said as she grunted, “...We better carry this straight to the car.”
“Y'all need help?” I offered.
“Nah, we got it,” he replied, then took it from his wife and grunted. His wife grabbed the other side of the brisket.
“Let's go, dear,” she said, “Remember your back.”
“I know, Lois.”
They walked off as I heard him say too loudly, “Told you this would happen if we came here. Thank God we don't come here much.”
I sipped my tepid coffee growing cold from the drizzle and wind. Maria’s tamales were selling like hotcakes at the other side of the market, I could tell; a perennial favorite for Christmas. I should snag some before they sold out. Lines were growing longer at the bakery and coffee shop stands, which typically meant a queue’s on its way here. I took one more sip of coffee and checked my phone. Jason had answered.
Merry Xmas, Dad! Going to Sarah's for dinner tonight. How about u?
I texted back. Nothing big -- will probably do Wonderful Life, like always. Your mom's favorite. I set down the phone.
A boy, maybe ten (I’ve never been good at judging ages) stood at my table, eyes scanning the sentence in his head he’s just rehearsed.
“Hello, young man,” I said, “How can I help you?”
“My mom wants to know do you have any chicken,” he asked robotically, then pointed at a woman at Beth and Caleb’s table laden with carrots and potatoes. She wore a baby in a back carrier and had another ankle-biter holding on to the bottom of her dress. I’d seen her around the market, but they’d never before come to me.
“I do indeed. How big a bird would you like?”
“Um,” he stammered, “...I dunno. She didn’t say.” He emptied the contents of his fist onto my table and revealed a wadded ten dollar bill. I looked at his mother for her attention, but she was engrossed in conversation with Beth. Her toddler gave her a potato and she shook her head no and put it back.
“Well, let's see what I got,” I replied, then headed to my chicken cooler. I glanced at his mother one more time and saw her look at the total on Beth's calculator, then removed another potato and a handful of carrots from the scale.
I pulled out my biggest girl from the bottom and placed it on the scale. I tapped a few random buttons with exaggeration on my calculator.
“Well now... this bird’s five dollars. How about it?”
“Yes sir,” the boy said, then handed me his wadded ten. I took the cash, slid the chicken into a bag, then offered it to him with a clean five dollar bill.
“Be careful now, it’s kinda heavy,” I said.
“I got it. Thank you sir.”
“You bet. Merry Christmas.” I sipped my cooled coffee. Kid said sir. Good boy.
He walked over to his mom as I turned my attention to the line several people deep now queued at my table. A man with a dog wanted a roast and some scrap bones. A young couple with a fabric bag laden with library books asked for short ribs and ground beef. Emily Woodward with her gaggle of kids picked up their monthly order of a bit of everything. Sheriff Adams asked me to hold a bird and some ribeyes that he’d pick up after his shift. Grant and his thirteen-year-old (maybe? — again with the ages) daughter asked for ground beef, soup bones, and a brisket — my coffee was now gone, so I tasked young Ivy with filling up my mug at Cuppa Joe’s and gave her a few dollars for both Joe and herself for the trouble. Alan ended the line offering some of his donuts in exchange for a couple pounds of chicken thighs.
“Been busy today?” I asked him as I bagged his meat.
“Eh …not as much as you’d think for Christmas Eve,” he said. “Been slow with random hits of busy. Rain, I guess. Mostly pre-order pickups for Christmas Day breakfast.”
I nodded. “Yeah, hit or miss for me too.”
“You got plans for tonight?” Alan asked. I’d successfully avoided this question up to now.
I half-smiled. “Ah, you know... We’ll see. Son and his kids are with his girlfriend tonight and daughter's a thousand miles away. Might watch a movie. Might head to midnight mass.” Ivy wordlessly returned with my mug and I sipped my refill, grateful to give my hands something to do.
“I know we're always a chaotic zoo, but you're welcome to join us tonight. The more the merrier.”
“Thanks, Alan,” I said, “But I don't want to impose on your family stuff. I remember how it is.”
“Ah, Max,” he said, “You wouldn't impose. There’s other people coming too. Lots of folks coming and going. Our neighbors always pop by and we’ll have a bonfire in the backyard. It’s a good time.”
“Kind of you to offer. But I’ll pass.”
He picked up his bagged meat. “Suit yourself. But you got my number. Or just pop by — it’s the blue house across the street from the library.” He pointed behind him.
I smiled politely and waved as he pulled on the hood of his jacket and walked back to his table. Bing Crosby began crooning from speakers somewhere as the drizzle picked back up. I checked my phone.
Merry Christmas Eve, Dad! from Kristen.
Hey kiddo! I typed back. Same to you. Miss you. What are you up to today?
Three dots pulsed for a minute and I willed the slow message to appear. Then, Working till close, then I dunno tonight. Maybe Mass? Not sure. ...Feels weird without you or mom.
You're always welcome at any Mass, I replied.
I know, Kristen answered. Still feels weird though. I nodded in agreement.
Well, try and be around people tonight or tomorrow. Don't like the thought of you up there in the city by yourself. ...Maybe I'll try for a last-minute flight?
Three dots right away. Then, NO DAD. Then again, We talked about this. I gotta work again on the 26th and you can't leave the ranch alone. It's all good.
I miss you, I typed, then hesitated to send. I paused. I set down my phone. I looked up. The ten-year-old son’s mother was now standing there, patiently vying for my attention.
“Oh, I'm so sorry ma’am; I didn't see you there,” I said, “Apologies to keep you waiting.”
“That chicken wasn’t five dollars,” she answered. She heaved the heavy bag I gave her son onto my table.
“Uh…” I answered dumbly.
“I've got ten dollars to spend on meat. I’ll take a ten-dollar bird if you've got one. If not, I’d like my five dollars back, please.” She looked much younger up close than she seemed at a distance, though dark circles and a few shimmers of gray around her face revealed a secret or two. She swayed back and forth and I wondered why, then glanced at the straps on her shoulders and remembered the content on her back.
“Well ma’am,” I said, “I sold your son that bird for five dollars. That's my rate.”
“Like hell it is,” she said, emotionless. She wasn’t mad. She was tired. “I'm not a charity case.”
“Oh, I know that,” I answered quickly, “I didn’t mean it like that. I just... that’s my rate.” She glanced at my chalkboard, eyes moving quickly until she landed on ‘Whole Chicken: $10/lb.’ She raised her eyebrows and looked back at me.
I shrugged. “...It’s my holiday rate.”
Her son walked up and stood next to her, looked at me and nodded politely, then tapped her side. “Mom?” She looked down at him. “Here's the rest,” then showed her a bag whose contents looked like a bouquet of greens, maybe spinach or chard. With his other hand he held out to her a few coins in change.
The woman looked back at me, square in the eye. “Two of them are rife with allergies, so we gotta get stuff here. When we can.”
I nodded. “I understand that, ma'am. I hear that a lot.”
“And we don't get meat much, because... well. Fixed income.”
I nodded again, not sure what to say. “...Got a special dinner planned for tomorrow?” I asked.
She smirked and huffed a laugh. “I guess.” I nodded once more, awkwardly. We stood in silence for a few seconds, then she said, “I mean... it's just the four of us. But I'd still like to make us some meat.”
“Christmas,” I offered vacuously.
“Yeah,” she answered.
I nodded again and sipped my coffee, not sure what to do next. “Well ma’am,” I said, “I’m not gonna make you take that meat. But it’s yours for five dollars if you want it. Take it or leave it.”
She gripped the handle on the bag and looked down. She was so very tired. I wondered if she was closing her eyes for a moment, she looked so tired. Her older son looked tired too, now that I noticed; his cheeks were blotched red and his shoulders slumped. His jacket’s zipper was broken, revealing a Minecraft t-shirt a bit too small. Her toddler walked in circles around her legs, holding onto her skirt as he twisted it.
“Aidan, stop please,” she said, grabbing her skirt’s waistband and twisting it back. I picked up the bagged bird and offered it to her son. He looked at his mom, who offered a nod of surrender, and then took it. “Thanks,” she whispered.
“Hey, it’s a good bird,” I answered, then looked at her son. “You’ve got a good Christmas feast in store.”
“Yes, sir.”
I set down my mug and offered him my hand. “I'm Max,” I said.
He shook it weakly. “Tyler.”
“Nice to meet you, Tyler.” I pointed at his younger brother now at a full-on run around his mother’s legs. The baby on her back had begun fussing. “You've got a busy set of brothers.”
He nodded. “Yeah,” then, “They're kinda annoying sometimes.”
I laughed. “I bet. That's what brothers are for.”
“Do you live on a farm with cows?” Tyler asked.
His mother put an arm on his shoulder. “Let's not bother him too much now,” she said.
“Oh ma’am, I don’t mind at all,” I said, “Your son's good company. Makes me miss my grandkids.” I looked at Tyler. “I do indeed, son. But it’s called a ranch.”
She smiled for the first time and revealed dimples. I noticed freckles sprinkled on her cheeks and nose. Very pretty. Young. “How many grandkids you got?” she asked.
“Two, so far,” I answered. “Both from my son. They live about four hours away. Now divorced, so I don’t seem ‘em as much as I used to.”
She nodded. “Sorry to hear that.”
“Ah, it's alright. I'll take ‘em when I get ‘em. It's hard for me to leave the ranch too.”
“I like cows,” Tyler offered.
“Cows,” cooed Aidan as he now spun in circles on the other side of his mother. “Cow cow cow cow.”
“Well now,” I said, “You and your brothers and mother are welcome anytime. My cows like visitors.”
Tyler’s eyes grew wide. “Can I milk one?”
“Tyler,” his mother said.
“Well now…” I said delicately, “It’s not those kind of cows. I do other things with ‘em. But you can definitely pet them.” His mother smiled.
“Mom, can we?” he asked.
She shrugged her shoulders. Then, “We’ll just see. Maybe.”
“Let me give you my card,” I offered. I grabbed one off the stack and handed it to her.
She read it. “…Max McGuinty. Old Scot Farm.”
“About an hour out of town from here. Middle of nowhere.”
“I bet it’s lovely.”
I smiled. “…It is. Was a good place to raise kids. Lots of room to run.”
“That sounds nice,” she said.
I nodded. “I bet your boys could use some running. You're truly welcome anytime.”
She nodded, then said sheepishly, “It’d be a bit of gas money for us, so we'll have to see.”
“Ah,” I answered. “Well... anytime.” The drizzle had now morphed into a full-on sprinkle and the tap-tap-tap cadence of raindrops on my canopy grew louder. I picked up my rain jacket and she pulled out an umbrella. The market was quickly nearing empty and folks were running from the library door to their cars. I’ve got a few more pre-orders to wait for pick-up, but then I'll probably pack up shop for the day as soon as the sheriff comes back.
“I’m a widow,” she offered suddenly. “Earlier this year.”
I nodded and looked into her eyes, now looking straight into mine. Gray with gold flecks. Pretty. “I'm sorry to hear that. ...I'm a widower too. This summer.”
“Oh, I'm so sorry to hear.”
“Yeah,” I answered. “Cancer.”
“Same,” she replied. Tyler grabbed her hand and she squeezed it.
“Mom, let's go,” he said. She nodded.
“...Well, we'll stop bothering you now,” she said. “Thanks again for the chicken. It means a lot.”
“You're welcome,” I answered. Then suddenly, “Hey, what's your name?”
“Kristin.”
“…That's my daughter's name.”
“Oh,” she said, “With an ‘e’ or an ‘i’?”
“With an ‘e’.”
“Ah. Mine's with an ‘i’.”
I nodded again. “Kristin with an ‘i’ — you live nearby?”
“Yep,” she said, pointing, “Right over there. Old fixer-upper. Husband was an architect so we had grand plans for it. Not sure what we'll do with it now.”
“We're next door to the library,” Tyler offered.
“Ah, that’s nice,” I said, “Used to take my kids there. ...Or well, Jane did. My wife.”
“Been there a long time,” Kristin said. Then, “Oh, sorry — not saying you're old,” and blushed. “Sorry,” she said again.
I laughed. “No, you’re not wrong. I am getting up there.”
“Cows!” shouted Aidan, still spinning, now smacking his feet in a newly-formed puddle.
“Yeah, cows,” said Tyler, still tugging at his mom.
“...Maybe sometime,” Kristen said, more to herself this time than to her sons.
Kristin and her boys nodded goodbye and started to walk away. I picked up my phone and saw my unsent drafted message to Kristen. She’d since texted again. I miss you, Dad.
I looked up and shouted, “So you live right over there…”
Kristin turned around, looked at me with her gray eyes, and nodded.
“Y'all got plans for tonight?”
“Not really,” she shouted back, “Maybe a movie but then these boys gotta get to bed so Santa can come.” Tyler rolled his eyes, clearly too old.
“I don’t have much in the way of plans either,” I yelled. Then, “Hey Tyler …You like bonfires?”
He nodded.
“Me too.” ❄
I want to buy and read this whole book, now at Christmas time
So so good...tears, from another widow.