Brace yourself. Get a glass of water. And make sure you have enough time to begin reading this - because it’s a mess from right about

here

to the end…

Every Saturday morning I wake up at 3. (Or 2:30 if I’m harvesting squash blossoms by headlight in the morning - p.s. NEVER doing that again.)
I get ready. I eat a slice of bread. I get in the car and I drive in the dark to the farm. I change the radio station eighteen times along the way because no music is just right before 4 A.M. I pass a couple cars. I pass a couple cops. I get pulled over by a cop. Because my back TAG lights were out. TAG LIGHTS?! I didn’t even know those EXISTED. (Yes that is what I told him.) I carry on. I pass a surprising amount of people on the road between 3 and 4 AM. For a while there I pretended that they were all other various country people preparing their day for farmers market. At some point I half-accepted that that’s probably not true. That some point was when I had to pick Drew up from his Dad’s house in the morning on Wadmalaw - and along the way passed a street lit with overhead lights like it was the middle of the day - and all kinds of people hanging out like it was two o’clock in the afternoon, sharing a drink with some friends on the weekend.
Johnson Baby Grand.
That’s what Drew (Pete’s 16-year-old grandson who has been working markets with me since March) called that side road spot on the Island.
Johnson Baby Grand.
How could that name not stick with you? I remembered it from the first time I heard it. It makes me imagine a big tailgate party late night sandlot baseball game with a crazy truckbed dance party afterward. Don’t ask me why - it just does.
I pull in the farm lane around 4:05 AM and Drew is usually waiting with his headlights pointed at the farm gate lock, struggling to put in the same combination we’ve been using since April.
He still can’t make the lock open.
It’s September.
Or Drew is not working the lock and I find Drew’s car parked near the gate, running, headlights off, with soft country music playing and Drew passed out in the back seat.
Or I find no Drew because he missed his alarm and I freak out thinking I might have to do the entire market alone.
OR I find no me and no Drew because we were both harvesting until 6 p.m. the night before and were so exhausted that we both individually didn’t wake up.
But even ^that morning, we still ended up at the farm energizing our way through our starlit box truck load up.
I open the difficult gate lock.
We drive down the farm lane. Clock in. Park our cars, walk to the Hang-out and wordlessly begin about our tasks loading the scales that were charging overnight, the bags of butter beans, boxes of squash blossoms and microgreens and crates upon crates upon lugs of fresh vegetables. I take a big step from the box truck deck to the cooler loading dock and my foot slips out from under me. I bite it. Thigh hits the edge of the deck so hard that when I sit up I notice it has left an indent in my leg.  This is why Toms = bad farm shoes. Drew looks worried and asks if I’m alright. I shrug my shoulders. We ice the coolers that need ice. Grab the cashbox. Almost always remember the cash box key. Check over our list. (Almost always forget something). We finish loading. Specifically check to make sure we pack the perfect pink pumpkin a customer requested last week. I make myself a bag of ice and gingerly lift myself into the drivers seat, slap the ice on my thigh, (so cold!) look at the stars one more time, start the truck and slowly pull down the rutted dirt farm lane. Drew hops out at the end (has no problem re-locking the lock - crazy kid). I turn on the air conditioning and country music, and if Drew is lucky, I do not make him grab some scrap paper and scribble out our table display layout, and I let him (usually within 45 seconds) fall fast asleep in the passenger seat.
We bounce down Maybank Highway. Get passed by at least three souped up cars from Johnson Baby Grand. Hop from Wadmalaw, to Johns Island, to James Island to downtown. Stay straight on Calhoun. Turn left onto Meeting. And pull onto Tobacco Row in downtown Charleston’s Marion Square where the rope-and-knot-tying artist, the Fields family, and the mayor of the farmers market (and king of kettle corn), Bo, have all three been set up since probably 4:30 in the morning.
We wait a minute for the park staff to set up our tents. While we’re waiting Mike swings by from Mike’s Boiled Peanuts, making his rounds to say good morning to friends. He’s been doing this market for over ten years and gives us boiled peanuts every afternoon. This morning he shows up with two printed pictures of produce displays. Wide open baskets full of colorful fruits and vegetables. “Don’t you think that looks beautiful doll?!”
    “In fact Mike - I do! We are making a display about the CSA today! That type of mixed basket would be beautiful. Come back and take a look in a couple hours.”
Drew wakes up from his nap and asks me if I’ve ever felt an itch inside of my belly button.
Inside?
We park and we unload. Drew stays to set up tables and I drive the boxtruck to the parking lot and walk back in the dark to the Square, brainstorming witty table cloth quotes and nutrition facts along the way.
From 5:45 to 7:50 we set up. Sometime after 7:30 Ms. Grace swings by to take our breakfast order. I debate adding bacon. She talks me into ham. Drew gets a number one with sausage and adds an extra muffin.

We continue about our set-up.

Haggle over the squash prices. Re-haggle over the specific placement of one pink pumpkin. The corner of the tabletop or the kind-of-middle-left-side-not-quite-corner of the tabletop? Drew wins.
I place a woven basket high on the table and fill it with all the same contents as last week’s CSA share and Mike is 100% right. There is nothing like all the colors of summer vegetables overflowing out of the same container.
Just as I’m writing on our chalkboard table cloth, Jeff arrives still wearing his scrubs from the shift he just finished working at a medical care center. He is always first. He buys so many vegetables that he brings an Ikea bag every week just to fit them. Every week he is friendly, and calm, talkative and willing to try out a new vegetable or two. He is in love with arugula. And more often than not his co-worker comes to buy vegetables too.
Brooke stops by for a little farm chat and occasionally buys a thing or two that is not growing yet in her large garden.
Our other morning regulars filter in one by two by one.
Bill pops up almost out of nowhere, headphones in, smile on his face and carefully bags exactly the right amount of each vegetable. He asks for recipes on occasion, but not overwhelmingly and we both know he knows how to cook everything anyway.
The clock tower rings 8 o’clock and Drew and I both notice the volume kick up a notch - as though the market has permission now not to whisper.
Amanda, a painter, sneaks over from her booth to get first dibs on all her vegetables and hide them in a cooler to pay later.
Wayne hollers from the booth next door, “Coffee’s up! Yours is on the counter Cait, come fix it up! Are you sure you don’t want a waffle? An omelette?”

Next week Wayne will rotate out and instead the French bakers will be tempting us with lemonade, pastries, and chocolate covered waffles-on-sticks.
Bo fires up his giant kettle corn kettle for the first time and it makes a deep blasting firey sound across the sidewalk. To my right Ashley’s woodworking bench softly echoes as she works on a new piece, goggles pulled down, smooth bowls and delicate wood ornaments swooshing around her.

Our food arrives from Ms. Grace (ie: my market mom). Nothing like a hot egg, ham and cheese on real bread, and without it, I honestly probably wouldn’t eat a single full meal or sandwich all day. Drew can vouch for that.
Andy, the King of Pops popsicle guy is normally just arriving at this point, simply and easily, wheeling his cart of lemon basil and chocolate sea salt and Arnold Palmer flavored pops in through the slowly filling market, stopping in a spot conveniently just across from my tent. He pops his umbrella, sets out his sign, ready to go. And I always always envy the easiness of his display.
Jim and Bev show up and take their time looking at all of the produce we’ve set out. Most of the time Bev arrives first, and then Jim with his “Charleston Cup” of coffee. They are the most genuinely happy. Jim studied medicine at my alma mater, Emory University. Bev picks out some microgreens and they discuss, with each other what sandwiches or salads they used them on the week before. Our morning simply would not be the same without them.
Bo walks over from the kettle corn stand to check on my leg and we notice it has swollen so much you can see my bruise sticking out from the side.
I find some ice.
Kate from the art gallery on King St comes around the corner sans-bike with her yoga mat rolled under her arm, finds the vegetables she needs quickly and cheerily, and briskly goes off towards the rest of her Saturday.
Sandra and her dog arrive with questions and recipe talk and I find out that she did some rare and beautiful documentary photography in Tanzania, soon to be exhibited at the Avery. Kara went to Tanzania once and she said there were so many stars in the sky it was almost like you could fall in.
We have a good handful of photographer customers at the farmers market and I like to imagine it has something to do with a good eye being able to pick out the best produce as well ;)
This brings us to only just before 9 o’clock and if I went through the rest of everyone, even though they are honestly equally as important - I’d probably lose the three readers who are actually still left reading about my market day at this point. Or two? One? Hello?
Drew and I take turns re-stocking the table, talking to new people, talking to old friendly customers, and working the cashbox and scales. Drew leaves for the bathroom and comes back. I trade tomatoes and carrots for double espresso and come back. Drew leaves to get a snack and comes back.
We work some more.
I tell the same eggplant recipe to 50,000,000,000 people.
Today I was so tired of it by lunch that when someone asked me about the Thai eggplant and how to prepare it - I just told him not to get too close and that it was poisonous and only for display.
He bought 4…. Sometimes humor works just as well as a straight answer.
I leave to trade fairytale eggplant for lunch with the BBQ guys.
I say hi to Wendy at the Juice Joint.

I say hi to Mary, the soap-genius behind Earth Maiden (and my #1 broccoli-enthusiast), whose pepperminty bug spray has saved me one too many times at the farm.

I say hi to the folks serving up po’boys and cafe du monde at the Cafe Tippeneaux.
I say hi to Lee and Steve who are selling all kinds of yummy jams and pickles and grits and put-up goods. Lee asks for the third week in a row where my booth is and says he’ll come visit and I don’t mind that I know he’ll be too busy to get there.
I say hi to Ms. Celeste and we talk about chickens, and milk and her salt of the earth inspires me that the kind of life we live is not just okay, but good. She reminds me that tough farm problems sometimes have inconvenient solutions but that those solutions can bring joy and, sometimes, success.
I run and get change from Andy.
I run and get change from Katherine at the fresh pasta booth.
I run and Ms. Grace makes me stop running and calls me over “Hey Ambrose!” and takes another look at my swollen leg and turns away from all of her customers for just a minute, passing me a big glass of mint tea and a chocolate muffin, and tells me to sit down.
I run and get change from my wonderful friend Danielle at Sea Island Savory Herbs. She checks out my leg and mentions there might be some herb or plant that would help with the bruising.
Jared comes to barter cheese for lambs quarter.
Other Jared from the farm comes to lend a hand on occasion and hang out, get some tips for his garden.
Katherine swings by to buy some vegetables, and I won’t realize until 9:30 that evening that she snuck some espresso gelato into my bag as a surprise for later.
The Fields to Families gleaning organization comes by to gracefully collect our extra squash and cucumbers etc.
At 1:43 Drew asks if he can start packing up.
Avi, our folksinger delivery guy at the farm, shows up to help pack in exchange for food privileges.
Bo lets me leave to get the truck early.
I limp back.
I carry one basket into the truck and he tells me to stop. A twenty minute load-up turns into five when out of nowhere seven people are loading the truck without my asking them. Bo gives me a hug and tells me to take care of that leg. I tell him it’s nice to have friends I can count on. He says “Don’t mention it, you’re all good to go.” And he means it.
Shawn calls from one of our restaurants, S.N.O.B. (the first restaurant I ever ate at in Charleston at the age of 14, and the first place I saw my mom and aunts get blasted on chocolate, or was it espresso? martinis. Sorry Mom - love you. They’re good! I know!). He asks if we can swing by and let him raid the truck on the way home. We drive over. He makes a nice order. Clara eggplant, zucchini, red jalapenos, free range eggs. He helps us carry boxes in, waves the ticket off til later and heads back toward his tight and busy kitchen.
We drive back to the farm.
Drew counts the cashbox while I drive the truck.
(Doors locked.)
I straddle the center of the road on Maybank Highway to avoid the arching live oak and spanish moss that’s just a bit too low for the roof of the boxtruck.
Halfway down Maybank I get the same old Saturday realization that I am soon going to have to back the boxtruck in between a pine tree and the dry trailer to get to the loading dock. (Maybe I’ve never been very good at complicated parking situations.)
We unload. Pete comes out to chat. We share some funny stories. I recount the cash box. We share more funny stories. Haggle over the bulk list. I send out an email to all our restaurants telling them what veggies we have available.
I take a second, before I get into my car, to look at the farm. It is quiet on a Saturday, the sun is moving down in the sky.White egrets fly in groups of five and eight across the pumpkin fields. I get in, roll my windows down and slowly head home for a quick shower, some dinner, firework-lighting in the yard with my roommates, and the impending realization that there is espresso gelato in my freezer, a hard day’s work done, a cold pack in my home freezer, waiting for my leg, and a whole community of people who lovingly pulled me through yet another Saturday at the Charleston Farmers Market.
The - believe it or not - end.
Until next week.