We’ve got a new houseguest living with us for the summer, and he works at one of the local orchards. Some days he gets up really early to work at the orchard’s stand at local farmers markets; other days he trims peach trees, restocks the walk-in freezer, walks alpacas, helps build roofs. Basically, for nearly sixty hours a week, he does whatever he’s asked to do out at the orchard, and he seems to really like it.
This morning was a farmers market morning. I heard him leave a little after five.
About 9 am, I pushed the Bean’s stroller over to the market to pick up our weekly half-share of local veggies and fruit from a different local farm, and I stopped, as usual, to say hello to our friend. He was finishing up an enormous bite of some sort of breakfast food, and he’s not typically a breakfast eater. He apologized for the mouthful, and explained.
A woman who (he thinks) works in one of the nearby restaurants came around to various stands at the market and purchased lettuce, tomatoes, bread, and bacon, and then left. A little while later, she came out with–you guessed it–freshly made BLT sandwiches for the farm workers who had been manning the stands.
Out of the blue.
And so these workers who’d been up and at ’em since before the sun rose this morning, who’d set up their tents, unloaded their produce, and sat for a few hours in the chilly dampness of a foggy morning, got to pause and appreciate the fruits of their labor–literally.
They also felt appreciated. Or at least I know one recent college grad who did.
Every week, our little farmers market opens for a few hours. Every week, I push my stroller over there to pick up my veggies. Sometimes I grumble to myself about how I’m going to carry the bag of food home while pushing the stroller, since it doesn’t fit in the storage compartment and I don’t want my lettuce to get smushed or my eggs broken.
But rarely do I say “Thanks for doing this, guys,” or “I really love this market–I’m glad you’re here,” or, even, “How are you doing today?” and mean it.
Never have I made them BLT sandwiches.
I probably never will. For one thing, I don’t cook bacon.
But I could say thanks every once in awhile.
And you could, too.