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