It
always seems that halfway through the summer farmer’s market season tourists
passing through City Hall Park start to wear me out.
Last
week, one asked how many days “this fair” would be going on.
Granted,
market has become increasingly fair-like (Festival of Fools comes to mind) and there
was some sort of Jesus-revival thing settling in for the afternoon on the other
end of the green.
“This
is farmer’s market, Sir, it ends at two.”
I’m
fine with the day-trippers so long as they conduct themselves with some propriety:
ordinary manners, not allowing their children to jump on the tables – and in
return, I listen to their stories about staying at B&B/Farm Adventure-time
Experience, and remain calm when someone bites down on a jelly donut and blows raspberry
filling all over the carpet.
(We call
that rug “Old Stinky,” by the way.)
In
short, I consider my booth a private space, into which people are invited to
peruse goods, and perhaps purchase them.
So,
it irked me when someone settled down in front of my stand to use it as a
picnic table.
Now,
I know that a billowing tablecloth is an attractive nuisance, and one can’t
help but have indecent thoughts about how very nice it would be to run their sticky
fingers against it’s cotton fineness.
But,
avoiding eye contact with me because you couldn’t be bothered to take a napkin
from a prepared food vendor is an indication you know you’re crossing the
Waverly line.
I’ve
practiced a scathing Dwayne (The Rock) Johnson facial expression that begs to
be applied in these situations. And icy witty
comebacks. Yes, many, many of those –
and there so rarely arises an opportunity to use them in the proper context.
I
gave my husband Dan a deflated look when the offender left, and asked him to
brush the wheaty aftermath of crumbs away; a bout of hives from my gluten
allergy would have have ruined the rest of the day.
At
closing time we were dismantling our stand, tablecloths folded and put away,
signs down, one of two tables upturned.
I noticed
a person standing at the remaining table out of the corner of my eye. A last minute customer, perhaps?
The
older gentlemen had put his purchases down and was fiddling with a pie in an
open box – trying to break the sides down, presumably so it would not shift
back and forth, because nobody wants to show up at Nana’s hurricane party with a
broken, shattered crust – no matter how tasty the pastry.
He inquired
as to how my day went and made light conversation, which acknowledged not only that
I existed, but also that he appreciated the opportunity to rearrange his goods in
my space before being on his way.
Okay,
I made that last part up, but I figure that’s what he was thinking– and I doubt
he was in Vermont for only the one day.
You
can tell the difference, if you’ve been in the trade as long as I have.
