They Grow More Than Vegetables at the Rocky Mount Farmers' Market

Two years ago, almost to the day, I moved to Rocky Mount.  Came to a house I had never seen, a people I didn't know in a town that had no reason to care about me.  Just another move, another house, another year.

My family quickly found the Farmers' Market and I applied to the craft committee to sell my homemade soap.  You see, the folks at the Rocky Mount Farmers' Market are committed to ensuring that the things sold there are really local.  Your hard earned money goes directly into the hands of the person across the table.  You can ask questions about what you buy.

Take grits for example.  I never knew a thing about grits (did I mention I am not from around here?) until I got to know Carol.  Carol and I talk about more than grits, we discuss beaches, art, music and travel.  By the way, if Carol is there with the Carolina Grits, don't ponder your purchase very long or you will find the crate empty.

One fall Saturday, I set up my soap, put on my reserved smile and tried not to scream, "I'm not from around here!"  Rena, the other woman who sells soap, came over to my spot.  She has beautiful soap and even more beautiful eyes.  We talked. Then I bought some calendula from her, the first of many purchases.  So much for competition.

I feel for the market manager and his task of herding all of our wares and opinions into our spaces but I know his secret.  He is watching out for all of us at the market, making sure that we are all well cared for.  When the weather turns cold, he creates space where there is none so that we can all fit into the warm, main building.  He makes a person feel easy, like you should on a Saturday in the South.

Recently, I bought a loaf of Magie's bread.  All seven ingredients are listed.  They are all recognizable things like yeast, spring wheat flour, and butter.  My kids eat that bread instead of chips and many Friday evenings have seen heated discussions about what kind to buy the next morning.

The truth is, I didn't mean to find my friends at the farmers' market.  But there they are.  There is the joyful woman who gave my daughter a small pot of "hen and biddies" and Michael with his collard shirts and I did not spell that wrong.  I will never forget the quiet integrity of Mr. H and his honey and how his unfiltered beeswax makes the best lotion cake ever.  That beeswax could make a donkey's hoof look like she'd gone for a french pedicure.

My sweet friend Angie and her pecan chewies and if that wasn't enough her lovely daughter had to go and get her started on that ultimate chocolatey death thing, and it is so good I think every piece added a year to my life.  Drury Lane sells amazing breakfast bars and you get humor with every purchase.  Kellie and her husband bring lettuce and peppers and pottery from the microfarm and her beautiful voice spoke encouragement to me once when I dared whisper about my dreams of writing.

Great, I am crying now and you folks from Rocky Mount weren't supposed to make me cry because I want to go back home and I'm not from around here!

No one knows home better than you.

You people who were so generous with the work of your hands and your happy hearts, you know that when the door opens I have to go back to my people but you had to go and grow my heart here.  Now my heart will break for you too and it was just supposed to be a farmers' market but instead it is a gathering of friends.

I don't think it's like this everywhere.  I think it's special here.

So go to the market.

Grab a twenty or whatever and pick up some fresh produce and eat it when you get home.  Get some cranberry honey this fall from Gardenbees for your biscuits or hot tea.  Pick up an organic roasting chicken or some seafood driven in from the coast and celebrate who you are and your friends, old and new.

They grow more than vegetables at the Rocky Mount Farmers' Market, they grow hearts.



Interesting Farmers' Market Facts:

• The people who sell baked goods at the market are required to have a kitchen inspection.
• Farmers who sell produce have their scales certified for accuracy every year.
• Baked goods have a list of ingredients.
• The market isn't just for groceries.  You will find pottery, beautifully bottled vinegar, quilts, plants, information on gardening, freshly cut flowers and the occasional live band or car show.

Farmers' Market Challenge:
Consider trying to buy most of your gifts at the market this year.  Our family did it last Christmas and it was a big hit.  Red pepper vinegar for someone who likes spice, a lovely bowl or chicken roaster, a scarf, a handwoven basket or beautiful woodwork.  Make a fruit or vegetable basket or pick up a beautiful piece of handmade jewelry.  Not every vendor or farmer is there every Saturday so come often to see new things.

This story was originally published on the Rise Rocky Mount: Our People, Our Stories Facebook site.  If you have a story about life in Rocky Mount that you would like to share, check out the Facebook site listed below or email Lori Harris at rockymountstories@yahoo.com.

Facebook pages:
Traveler In My Own Backyard
RISE Rocky Mount: Our People, Our Stories
Rocky Mount Farmers' Market

Other posts you might like:
Before we found out we were moving...Heavy, Heavy July
When your heart is one place and your life another...The Great In-Between
Friends...Iron Sharpens Iron...I wanna be like you...

The Porch and a Late Night Thursday...a guest post for you and me

I met Lori Harris one evening at Via Cappuccino at a book study for our local homeschool group.  She said hello right away, to ME, a stranger!  And she smiled like she meant it.  And we keep up through Facebook and we are becoming friends.  "Now," I say to my deeply introverted self, "Now, that is how you make friends!" Because clearly, I have forgotten.  Thank you, Lori, for helping me begin to crack my shell.  Lori blogs over at http://loriharris.me/ and I encourage you to take a minute to read and subscribe if you want more!

Kindly, she has written this guest post for you all, and for me. I hope you enjoy this glimpse of truth and how faith is not always sunbeams from heaven but we must sometimes struggle together in the dark and plant seeds anyway, not even knowing when the sun will rise...

The Porch and A Late Night Thursday

She stands on the front porch of my house, the clock ticking in my head, and she says she's not sure about God.

Or Jesus, for that matter.

It's after 9:30 and the porch lights need new bulbs and so we're standing there in the shadows while she unravels herself in a string of words.  I stand, arms by my side, listening and praying for some words to say.

God gives me nothing and so I just listen.

Cars drive by the house and the street lamps flicker and her words keep pace with her broken heart.   I keep pace with her verbal punches.

I stand on the porch with my big bag of nothing and she punches, over and over again.  She's a heap of hurt and I'm a heap of nothing and for a moment, I know that we stand in a place where Jesus likes to show up.

And so I wait.

Camel crickets hop across the steps.

Another street lamp comes to life.

The guy with the pimped out ride, straight down to the Payday logo on the side, thumps down my street.

And still I wait.

It's dark out.

My people sleep and still, we stand on the porch.  She waits for me to come up with magic words and I wait on Jesus to break her.

She keeps up the painful chatter and in her spewing of ugliness, I hear her heart speak the words her mouth just won't let slip out, and the beauty of it all is that she is unaware of her own breaking on my front porch.

I smile without meaning to and she smiles back at me.  There is nothing left to do but smile at one another.

And so we do.

We make small talk and I thank her for being honest with me, for telling me the truth about what she thought about Ann and all that naming gifts business.  She shoves her hands into her pockets and looks at her feet.  I tell her I knew the whole time.  That her body language spoke volumes and that I understood her.

"I get it.  It's OK," I say.  I swallow my own hurt.  My own pride.  I die a little on the inside and I hear Paul whispering in my ear, "To die is gain."

She looks up at me through her lashes and I look at her.

I really look at her.

And it's not her I see, but the person that Jesus died to save and I feel my heart flutter within my chest.

On my porch, moths cling to light and I cling to Jesus and I know what it means to truly live.

For this is His work in her life, to seek her and to save her, and I just so happen to get a front row seat, late on a Thursday night.