Every Second Saturday

Every second Saturday, my grandmother roused us extra early for a trip to the mainland - it was the farmers market day, a combination street festival and vegetable extravaganza that started when the sun came up and lasted until dark. The street was closed off to accommodate horses and wagons and the sleepy little town came to life with the noise of vendors and animals and people. You could buy fresh scallops or greens, handmade quilts, prize winning pigs, an entire basket of sweet corn. For those who were cash poor, the barter system was put into effect - two jars of blueberry jam for one of sour pickles or a homemade cherry pie in exchange for a slab of bacon. Services were swapped as well, carpentry for painting or plowing for help digging a well. Books could be traded for stamps or coins or school lessons. It was a wonder of rural coordination and cooperation.

When Nana was done and the old Lincoln's trunk packed to capacity, she carefully checked her list to make sure she hadn't forgotten anything or anyone. Lunch at the sunny and cheerful harborside cafe followed and then after a quick sidetrip to the province liquor store, we were back on the road and headed home.

We made deliveries that very afternoon, all over the island - Nana thumbed through her little spiral notebook to see who had requested what and how much, then precisely parceled out the selected items from the trunk and into waiting arms. In typical island fashion, each delivery meant an invitation to stop and visit, but mindful of the hour, we pressed on. It would be nearly four by the time we finally arrived home - coming up on supper time, much yet to be done and Aunt Vi would be arriving for the Saturday night shampoo and bath session. We were dusty and tired and glad to see the driveway and the waiting dogs come into sight.

I am now the age my grandmother was then and when I recall these childhood memories they are as bright and clear as if it had been yesterday. We are never children long enough, too quickly overcome by obligations and overdue bills, the demands of parenting and chores, the very process of being an adult. Time runs out while we are too busy to notice and genetically engineered food replaces the color, community, and simple joy of the farmers markets. It may be progress but it's not as sweet.