Farm Fresh

Just last week another farmer’s market opened near my home.  Not being a follower, I have yet to go and enjoy the madness.

Several years ago, I visited a few different farmers markets and vowed not to set foot near another.  The big hype of these usually outdoor events is supposed to be the “organic” produce, eggs, and plants.

“Organic” is one of those words that fall into the category of nebulous terms such as lo-cal, lite, and safe.  When describing food as “delicious,” it can be absolutely horrid to anyone except the one eating it so, delicious is not a fair word to use.  Organic, though, should mean something, unfortunately it usually doesn’t.  There are no official guidelines for labeling food as organic.

Farmers will label food as organic because they use “natural” fertilizer, or well water, or feed their chickens natural food.  For the record, chickens will eat pretty much anything – including their own poop – which is technically natural.  But, I digress.

The few farmer’s markets I have attended were virtually identical.  For some background, a farmers market was contrived years ago by people with too much money begging farmers to sell their goods to them at premium prices.  The idea behind these agoras was to provide a venue for the farmers to sell their wares directly to the public, thereby cutting out the middle man, allowing for a “fair” profit for the downtrodden farmers.

A local supermarket sells tomatoes for $3 per basket.  A farmer’s market vendor sells those same tomatoes for $7 per basket.  Somehow, that profit margin seems a bit steep to me as the farmer has little overhead.  Now, they advertise their tomatoes as organic and raise the price one-dollar.  Not being a patsy, I avoid those markets just to prove to myself that I’m not an imbecile.

Besides, most of the visitors to these produce fairs are dragging along their homely kids in strollers, a yellow Labrador, and cup of $4 coffee, with a Bluetooth device stuffed in their ears.  In all actuality, this is a social event for them to meet other mothers and compare the physical shortcomings of their offspring.  They stop anywhere with total disregard to anyone else, to yak amongst themselves and allow their dogs to provide extra blockage to the already waning sidewalk space.

Male-looking humans with pink sweaters tied around their necks, carrying lattes, offer a new level of irritation, lisping comments about the shade of squashes but, not buying a thing.

Folks there sell homemade ham biscuits that I would describe as embarrassing.  More often than not, a woman wearing tie-dyed tee shirt and some Gypsy-style skirt, accessorized with frizzy hair and huge round horned-rim glasses is selling plants and organic honey.  Again with the organic stuff.  How can honey be anything but organic?

That 1960’s throwback is often working with a tall, lanky guy sporting a bushy beard that could hold a nest of robins.  Sounding stoned, he feels compelled to say, “Did she mention the honey is ‘organic’?”

After a few hours of this circus-like atmosphere, the farmers head back to poverty as most of their goods go unsold.

And this enthusiasm continues week after week with this same parade of little farmers trying to squeeze the last buck out of the city slickers while their kids get older and homelier. 

Maybe I’ll take Smokey the cat to one and offer him as my beautiful child raised on organic food.

Easy Rider

People on The Eastern Shore use all methods of transportation to gad about the area. I’m not talking about the copious amounts of pickup trucks or cars rather, I refer to those who want to beat the system. Those modes of transportation involve all sorts of novel, but sane, vehicles.

You will see golf carts in both electric and gas, ATVs, grass cutters, and scooters cruising the streets of small towns on The Shore.  I have a golf cart of Harley Davidson persuasion that was manufactured 42-years ago.  Being relatively flat, the terrain is generally easy to pedal bicycles, too.

Once settled on The Shore, my sainted wife felt as though she needed her own personalized vehicle to fetch eggs, pick up mail, and merely outrun the mosquitos on her way to visit neighbors.

“I’d like to get one of those giant tricycles with a basket,” was her idea.

Being a doting husband, I set off on a Don Quixote-like search for a used one which I would rebuild and repaint to “make it her own.”

My quest was less than successful.  It seems as though people who buy those adult trikes all have the same idea.  Balance will take a back seat to speed and road hazards on the way to that special destination.

What people don’t take into account is that moving such a large, heavy vehicle strapped with a rider and accessories such as a basket, streamers, and horn, require the muscle tone of an Olympian.  Add a dozen eggs to the equation and you’ve got some pedaling to do.  As such, they often go un-ridden with less than one-mile on the tires, but still retain their hefty price tags, akin to a Ferrari.

A local junk collector had a rusty old woman’s bike available for the taking – from the drainage ditch behind his hovel.  Off it went to be dutifully disassembled, sanded, and tweaked.  Worn parts were replaced and a new cushioned seat designed for senior butts was added, as was a wicker basket, bell, and American flag set.  Painted in shades of coral, yellow, and baby blue, this minor work of art quickly became the envy of all in town.  The wide white wall tires helped distinguish this beach cruiser as a one-of-a-kind.

It was not a bad thing that traffic was non-existent when my sainted wife took her maiden voyage.  I was riding a mountain bike I rescued from the trash, trailing her and carefully observing her every move.  Pedal up, pedal down, pedal up, pedal down…  And so it went through most of the sleepy town.

We made our way several streets over when we came across a neighbor performing maintenance of some sort on his truck.  We stopped for a brief chat and to show off this sculpture on wheels which evoked a grin and positive comment.

The trip back home, however, was less successful.  Looking like a jack-knifed tractor trailer, my sainted wife’s steering abilities came into question.  She was down on the ground, quickly.  Our neighbor and I were lightning-like in our actions to lift her from the one-mile-per-hour wreck.  Her knee was scraped beneath the modest trail of blood.  Another neighbor dashed off to the fire house for bandages and antiseptics.  And all was nearly well, again.

She still rides her bike and has learned to ring her bell and wave to pedestrians while steering with one hand.  Not too bad for someone who hasn’t ridden a bicycle for nearly five decades.

Yes, I’m once again searching for an adult trike.  But, in the meantime, we may have to resort to training wheels and a pouch for the first aid kit.

Drive Time

When I learned to drive, I was instructed to sit erectly, adjust the seat, insure the mirrors were clearly visible, and avoid distractions.  Hands at ten and two, eyes forward.

Driving a vehicle is serious business and dangerous under the best of circumstances with wildlife and children dashing into the roadway presenting constant challenges to seasoned drivers.  Add to that mix people who think they are expert drivers and perform such tasks as eating, drinking, shaving, applying makeup, texting, talking on the phone, tending to their children, and reading.

Cars weaving to and fro give the hint to stay back as the weaving driver is usually conducting some sort of behavior that is inimical to maneuvering a 3000 pound hunk of steel and not killing or injuring someone.

It could be what the next generation of drivers learned when they were younger.  By that, I mean those times they were given trophies for losing, ‘A’s’ for miscalculating math problems, or atta-boys for doing nothing constructive.  In other words, they were told they could do anything and not be able to actually accomplish much.

Some elderly drivers present problems that can be described as oblivious.  You know the types.  They wear goofy hats, pull into the passing lane, then slow down to ten-miles per hour under the speed limit.  That can be both annoying and dangerous and, in Virginia, illegal, akin to texting or yakking on a cell phone.

Freebie:  Here’s a free tip from www.EasternShoreFishAndGame.com.  If you spot a vehicle adorned with a Canadian license plate, get ahead of them as quickly as possible because the driver doesn’t have a clue.  Period.

People can also be seen leaning across the front seat as if the seat itself was broken, or the vehicle’s operator is suffering from a serious back injury.  Sometimes a cell phone can be seen protruding from a wooly mitt-like hand nearly covering their head, giving pause to the bigfoot theory.

But this cornucopia of poor driving skills does not end here.  We must further break this blended mess of un-abled drivers by societal considerations.  A few years back, a trend that was once popular waned, but is now making a miraculous comeback.

Urbanites can once again be seen operating vehicles from a variety of questionable positions.  This phase was popular in the ‘90’s and caught on as a community statement.  It seems as though young exuberant drivers were seated so low in their seats they were nearly invisible to other drivers.  The reason for this was to avert a real or perceived threat from other equally young exuberant drivers who often turned to “drive-by” shootings.  By sitting lower in their seats, their targets were more difficult at which to aim.  Or so that was the theory.

This style of driving posture was popularized in many music videos and movies, and copied by the weak minded and easily influenced.  Not especially safe because a clear view of anything and quick reactions to road hazards become impossible.  But, they look the part.

This is my summer, though.  I am starting a trend which I’m certain everyone will be imitating before school restarts in the fall.  My new trend is to actually lie down on the floor of the vehicle, hold up a mirror to see over the dashboard with one hand, operate the pedals with the other hand, and steer with my feet. 

I’ll be the coolest guy on the road that nobody will see.

Take It Easy

Reflecting on years gone by about our favorite music, with some associates, got me thinkin’.  Nearly everyone – with possible exception of cloistered nuns – has gone to at least one concert or live music venue.

Personally, I bought music, then attended concerts based upon the music.  Others go to concerts, then buy music to refill those personal events.  Either way, the experience is particular to the fan who can recall the total environment.

Concerts are unique to the artists with some using lights, lasers, and smoke to enthrall the crowds, while others use dancing, pyrotechnics, and special audio effects to make those concerts memorable.

Yes, I recall troubadours with lutes playing on a stage in ancient Greece.  But I am referring to more modern concerts such as the Doobie Brothers, Jimmy Buffett, ELP, and Gloria Estefan.

My associates brought up the names Rush and Neil Diamond and nearly every band in between.  The discussion was lively and exciting if just to know these folks had not lived sheltered lives.  Then, the innocent banter took an odd turn.  Someone mentioned the Eagles.

The Eagles were/are a band from the 1970’s that toured the country with their music.  Their songs peppered the airwaves of both AM and FM radio, and were hits with the FM crowd, in particular.

Radio came I two flavors – AM and FM.  There was a time when cars came with radios that only received AM stations.  All the DJs talked fast and were your best friend, and filled voids in the music being played over the raspy AM conduit.  Then, some radios began broadcasting their signals on FM.

FM radio was clearer and absent the static that normally comes from thunderstorms, bad sparkplug wires, and using the blender.  The downsides were the limited range of FM, and all the new FM station DJs talked as if they were stoned.  Most were, as their broadcasts primarily originated from college campuses with students serving as the emcee.

Most of that FM stuff was horrible, something the other listeners termed “genius” and “cutting edge.”  The songs they played were ‘deep cuts’ that were normally simply recorded to fill the void between the few good songs on the album.  Nobody but the guy with the bong behind the microphone understood the song playing or why these DJs needed to whisper as if they were on the ninth green at Pebble Beach; I could turn the radio down if I needed to.  But, I digress.

The Eagles were/are one of the anti-establishment bands of the era.  They continuously ragged on “the Man,” who, in real life, was played by your boss, and the perpetually un-hip who didn’t ingest drugs.  These strong community messages were not the sole property of the Eagles, though.  Plenty of bands idolized the use of narcotics and promoted the recreational use of other illegal products such as weed.

But it is the anti-establishment part that really irked me.  These guys – some of whom still sport too-long hair, while pushing their walkers on stage – are beginning to use canes and hearing aids to impress their audiences.

It is this same group of geriatrics that wanted the youth to rebel against “the Man” who had all the money and was greedy and refused to give the common man anything for nothing, that now charges up to $1500 per ticket!  Who’s sticking what to whom?  Perhaps the price of Polident has skyrocketed.

Let’s pray that the Rolling Stones do not have banners for Depends or Geritol at their concerts.



Uncle Paul gives advice at:  http://easternshorefishandgame.blogspot.com/p/ask-uncle-paul.html

Thank You

Another year has gone by and I find myself disappointed again.  It seems as though the Nobel Prize Committee has ignored our stellar work here at www.easternshorefishandgame.com.  So has the Pulitzer committee, and the Publisher’s Clearinghouse clearly made a mistake.

Cameras, lights, guys with microphones, helium-filled balloons, and a giant cardboard check have eluded me once more.  Still, I have my acceptance speech all prepared and ready for an extraordinary presentation thanking all that made this award possible.

Watching those phonies in the audience at presentation ceremonies for Golden Globes, Oscars, Emmys, and People’s Choice awards actually make me glad I’m not part of that crowd.  Plastic smiles and fake body parts, hair weaves, tons of makeup, are enough to make anyone cringe, and then you look at the women attendees…

After all, most of them are egotists who merely want to claw their way back into the spotlight as they are now has-beens, otherwise known as B actors.

You can detect hints of envy in their eyes as the cameras pan the audience, anxiously awaiting the sound of a tearing envelope that will reveal the next award recipient.  Fake applause then follow with disappointed scowls that silently announce, “I’m just like that guy at www.easternshorefishandgame.com, now.”

Sure, but then we have people like Sophia Vergara who now dots the airwaves.  Ms. Vergara must have the best agent in America.  She stars in a TV show, sells cosmetics, and even has her own line of bedding at Kmart.  Perhaps she is the new Martha Stewart; not that jail thingy but a temporary flash-in-the-pan.  But, I digress.

For some, playing was a pastime when we were children.  We pretended to be soldiers and nurses, and cowboys.  We were construction workers with our toys moving dirt and building roads or housewives making delectable mud pies.  Some outgrew their young games, other did not.

Take sports for an example.  We played basketball, football, and sandlot baseball for enjoyment.  Others were fortunate enough to parlay their games into careers.  Still, many pro-ballers gripe about their meager seven-figure salaries.  Professional bass fisherman can pull in many thousands of dollars for a day on the water.  Skiers and skateboarders are also able to reap tons of cash for having fun. 

Basically, it all boils down to what people have accomplished in their respective lives.  A few years ago, a teacher assigned his class a writing exercise which required his students to write their own obituaries.  While sounding pretty morbid, it was a mental workout that forced people to reflect on their goals and accomplishments.

To say that a person pretended to be a soap opera character for 35-years may be something truly special to some, but being a real soldier and good parent is special to others.  An Emmy may be in store for that actor however, big awards and tuxedos are usually not the norm for armed service personnel.

Thanking our military men and women, and their families, for all they’ve given seems in order.  Yet, I doubt many of them will mind as they are the real thing – full of love for country and humility.

They don’t denounce the United States with too many making the ultimate sacrifice for it and all those who loathe them and our great nation.

Thank you, one and all.

A sign from above

A recent trip to help the economy and hunt for bargains took me to countless yard sales and two different flea markets.

Yard sales are conducted by one of two types of people: The kind that want to sell their clutter and make money, and the kind that merely want to talk to other people.

Those wanting to rid their lives and homes of useless clutter have the best prices and more than willing to haggle.  Guy tools from that failed marriage can be a real bargain, as can hunting and fishing equipment, happily being negotiated for pennies on the dollar.

The people wanting to talk are clearly evident.  Nothing on their tables is priced.  Upon picking up an item, the seller will say, “Make me an offer.”  At this point I usually retort with some insulting offer along the lines of twenty-five cents for a Tiffany lamp.  Those vendors are simply hoping that someone will offer them nine-dollars for an old stick, or that someone will merely sit and chat with them about some item they remember as kids.

Finding these venues can be an arduous task, too.  On the main thoroughfare is a sign with an arrow directing traffic to a “Humongous Yard Sale,” or “Awesome Garage Sale.”  Upon entering the development which looks like it was designed by Rod Serling, the signs become increasingly smaller until half matchbook covers, with the all-important address, are hung about 15-feet up on a utility pole, written illegibly.  Here’s a tip: Try reading it yourself while driving by at 30 MPH.  If you can’t, I can’t, either.  Please have change for a twenty, too.  I’m not a bank.

It’s because of these poorly planned neighborhood events that I turned to the flea markets.  Flea markets of yore were altogether different than they are today.  Back when we wrestled dinosaurs enroute to and from school, flea markets consisted of those yard salers who wanted greater exposure so, they would pay five bucks to rent a space at a drive-in theater and sell their wares, there.  For you youngsters, a drive-in theater was where babies came from.  But, I digress.

Today, flea market booths are largely manned by people selling new junk in the order of cheap bracelets, do-rags, clothes pins, and dead batteries.  Occasionally, you will find someone selling old-school junk or as we veteran flea marketeers call it, treasure.

One flea market was so well equipped with vendors of such a wide variety that they could put the local mall out of business if they were open weekdays.

There were three jewelers, three produce stands, two kitchen gadget places, one store selling parrots and other annoying birds, one dog and cat shop that sold dogs and cats, a cigar store, a uniform shop selling nurse’s smocks and uniforms, five vendors selling tools, one guy selling trailer parts, one woman selling lawnmower parts, three stores specializing in leather jackets and vests and chaps, and one joint selling all-important bingo supplies.  Fishing supplies, vacuum cleaners, and sunglasses surrounded the used car dealer.  Yes, used cars are even sold at this flea market.

There was a dentist, a barber shop, and a tattoo parlor, as well as a gun shop.  Four shops were selling plants and two were offering golfing needs.  Let’s not forget the carpet shop, the lottery ticket vendor, or the head shop.  This is what I call one-stop shopping.

And being hungry can get you into trouble.  Five greasy spoons were selling everything from oleaginous egg and sausage sandwiches to hot dogs that travel six-miles a day on those silver rollers.  To wash all your gastronomical challenges down, there were two bars serving that much needed cold beer at 9:00 AM.  This find was truly as stroke of luck.

And, the best part of all this is that there is a price on everything but, everything was still negotiable.

So, if you want to gab, add that fact to your yard sale sign – the sign that is large enough to read by a creature other than a hawk.  And if you want to sell something, place a price upon it because I don’t want to gab with you.

Make my day

Each week I diligently tune in to America’s version of Antique Roadshow.  It, much like countless other TV shows, began in Great Britain.  Their version of the show is set on the grounds of old castles and estates and involves people visiting the hosts and experts with their treasures.  They bring paintings and silver tea sets that were created centuries ago.  This British stuff is ages old – real antiques that must be over 100-years old to qualify as an antique.

Their experts ogle and fondle this stuff and mumble in British accents, eventually offering a suggested price for which the owners of that stuff should insure it.  I have no idea what that stuff is worth because they announce the price in British Pounds Sterling.

It seems a though the exchange rate changes so frequently and is so foreign that a pound is worth somewhere in the neighborhood of a dollar-and-a-half and three Cheez-its, as of this writing.

The American version is much easier to understand partly because in this version they speak English.  People bring in mostly junk bought at yard sales and flea markets and shamelessly have experts examine this American stuff.

I usually enjoy this banter because I’m so far away from predicting the worth of this stuff that my knowledge borders on criminal.

Folks bring stuff such as pottery, jewelry, and toys, as well as paintings and crusty documents.  The experts can identify some of the pottery as made by the Sioux in the late 1800’s for toting water.  Intricate carvings identify the potter as Chief Fullofbull and then ask where the owner acquired it.

“I got it at a garage sale last year for a quarter because I liked the squiggly lines,” the owner announces.

After replacing her dentures back into her mouth, the expert then announces this piece is worth $185,000.

This parade of wanna-be millionaires continues for the next sixty-minutes.  Antique furniture, pocket watches, and Civil War swords are scrutinized for authenticity and value one-by-one.  Most surprising to me are the values placed on this stuff.

A chair owned and used by Benjamin Franklin is valued at $38,000, while Elvis Presley salt and pepper shakers are valued at $63,000 in mint condition.

But, no matter how much this stuff is worth, the same broken record sentence is repeated by the owners.

“Yeah, but I’m keeping it because it’s worth more to me in sentimental value.”  Sure.

I’m waiting of the first honest person who, when told their antique milking stool, that has been stuck in the attic unbeknownst to anyone for the last 90-years, is valued at $18,000, exuberantly says, “Sold!”

Fake Tiffany lamps and Faberge eggs often turn up in these evaluations with owners clearly disappointed their bargains were not bargains after all.

A dead giveaway to something being counterfeit is the ink stamp on the bottom of that priceless 9^th century Mayan statue that reads “Made in Japan.”

Still, one can see the occasional fake Stradivarius violin and the genuine Peter Max ashtray being evaluated by experts evoking personal thoughts of what I may have given to the Salvation Army or sold for pennies at my own tag sale.

The bottom line is what is precious to some is junk to others, and that some people know the price of everything and the value of nothing.