Saturday Morning, Still
Pepper Scott
It is that time of year again when our little town starts waking up early on Saturdays.
The Farmers' Market becomes the center of gravity. People drift toward it carrying coffee cups, reusable bags, and good intentions. The smell of fresh bread floats through the air. Green chile piles up in wooden baskets. Tomatoes glow like polished jewels. Someone is always playing music somewhere nearby.
And for more than twenty years, Terry and I had our place in the middle of it all.
We may have missed a Saturday or two over those decades, usually because life had other plans. Hospital stays occasionally interrupted our routine, but never our enthusiasm. The market always waited for us.
Or maybe we were the ones waiting for it.
Terry's first stop was never a mystery.
The round table.
Not an official landmark, mind you. Just a gathering place near our friends' coffee and scone stand. But if you asked Terry, it was probably as important as town hall.
He loved those cinnamon walnut scones.
Loved them.
Every week he bought enough to stock the freezer, as though there might be a sudden scone shortage before the next Saturday arrived. He considered this practical planning. I considered it a highly specialized survival strategy.
While Terry held court at the round table, surrounded by friends, passersby, stories, and plenty of laughter, I would wander the market with our fur-baby Sammie. We inspected vegetables, admired flowers, and greeted familiar faces. Sammie considered it her civic duty to supervise the entire operation.
Several hours later, Terry and I would finally begin our exit ritual.
The Grand Tour.
One complete lap around the market before heading home.
No shortcuts allowed.
Terry had a joke for nearly everyone we encountered. The bakers especially adored him. Then again, if someone supplied cookies, pastries, pies, or anything involving butter and sugar, Terry generally became their biggest fan.
He was consistent that way.
The market has changed over the years.
Some of the faces we loved are no longer there. New vendors have arrived. New friendships have taken root. Seasons keep turning, just as they always do.
That is the lovely thing about farmers' markets and gardens alike.
Nothing stays exactly the same, yet somehow the spirit remains.
This morning, I took our fur-baby Jolie to the market.
Just the two of us.
She trotted beside me as if she had somewhere very important to be. We visited favorite booths. We admired flowers. We picked up fresh vegetables. And yes, I found myself picturing where that familiar round table would be.
I smiled.
Because what we built there was never really about coffee or scones or vegetables.
It was about showing up.
Week after week.
Season after season.
Sharing life with people we cared about.
So I keep going.
Partly for me.
Partly for Jolie.
And partly for Terry.
I like to think he would approve of that arrangement.
In fact, if there is a round table somewhere beautiful beyond this world, I suspect Terry is already seated there, cinnamon walnut scone in hand, making everybody laugh while he saves me a spot.
I'll keep coming back. Every Saturday, as long as the market sets up and the chilis roll in.
It's ours, still.
Mine and Terry's.
