It’s overcast and, after a month of sun, this Saturday morning seems a good opportunity to stay in bed and read a book with a cup of coffee. I put on an Irish sweater to cut the morning chill as I place a Chet Baker album on the turntable. Maybe I should dig out some stew meat and bake some soda bread. As I look out towards the hazy blue that sits between the mountains, I feel no desire to leave the house.
But I go anyway. I need to stretch my legs after yesterday’s run. Walking through downtown, I can’t help but notice the melancholic grey when the wind and the end-of-summer traffic kick up dust. I consider cutting my walk short and going back home, when I see the tops of market tents. I cross the street and head down the rusty steel stairs.
The first thing I notice at the Creston Valley Farmers’ Market is the unbridled energy of children. Having left their grandma to socialize, a brother and sister tear down the market – hand in hand – to check out all the available sweet treats: they inhale the smell of roasted pecans at the Nutty Bavarian; they look longingly at little bags of candy at Omi’s Brittle; they stop and sniff the air again, wondering if they can convince grandma to let them share a piece of bannock. Another child – not yet five years old – is still in his pajamas as he proudly runs ahead of his family, tightly holding a long orange squash like it was a football. The kids’ corner is a nice idea but, in a market buzzing with energy, it is silly to think any child would prefer to sit when they could run.
As I walk along, I recognize the faces of teenagers in the market stalls. I watch Gregory and his father at Purple House Farm sell apples and onions as produce prices written in black marker on small paper bags flutter in the breeze. I watch Anna make mud as she demonstrates her bubble wands. Megan is playing traditional Irish tunes on the fiddle, talking to those who praise her musicality as she stretches her hands between songs.
Despite the melancholic grey day, the market is awash with colour. The produce at Spectrum Farms – the deep purple eggplants and the bright green leeks –remind us what food can look and taste like when grown with love and care and patience. Further along, someone is biting into a peach, the colour of a setting sun. (She doesn’t seem to care that peach juice is dripping off her chin.) The amber glow from jars of honey at Swan Valley Honey and bottles of drinking vinegar at William Tell Family Estate reflect what little sun peeks through the clouds.
There is energy to the market, and I watch life unfold as I wander around without direction. A young couple with matching backpacks smells handmade soap at Yellow Rose Handcrafted Designs; a man with a red beard and a sweater full of holes takes a sip of Valhalla Vodka from the Kootenay Country Craft Distillery while his wife slips away to Wynndel Lavender; a mother and her daughter are chatting to Nadine as she sells the last of her corn from the back of a pickup truck. I walk past woven Minion caps and homemade wooden spoons. An older lady sporting a light rain jacket picks up a bottle of wine at Baillie-Grohman Estate Winery as I hear the sound of bamboo flutes from the man who discusses breathing techniques at Simply Bamboo.
I didn’t come to the Market for conversation, but I chat with Zack and Tamara at Root & Vine Acres about babies and houses and fountain pens. I chat to Victoria about salt pots, and to Rita about the purple potatoes I planted last spring. I discuss poetry with Luanne, and the problems of translation as it relates to the rhythm of poetry.
And then it occurs to me, for some reason, that I want a new coffee cup. It just doesn’t seem right to leave empty-handed. And I’m a sucker for pottery. It’s a toss up between the thick, chunky style found at Pridham Studio or the green-speckled smaller coffee cups at Orde Creek Pottery. After much internal debate, I opt for one of Gunda’s. It fits so well in the hand.
Back at home I clean out the coffee grounds from the French press and put the water on to boil for a fresh pot. It hasn’t warmed up much and my nose is cold. I also want to try out my new coffee cup. With another jazz record on the turntable, I sit down to write.