It's early August now, which is about half way through the market season. I'm holding up reasonably well energy-wise, and I've saved about half the amount that I was hoping to put away for the winter.
Part of me is actually looking forward to winter, which has become a time of lazy rhythms, reading and writing and resting. But then I look at all the spectacular produce I bring home each day, so much great stuff that I can't fit it into the refrigerator drawer, and I wonder how I can possibly look forward to another time of year.
Farmers' market work can be grueling, with long hours, heavy lifting, fast-paced work (when we're lucky,) and being outside in all kinds of weather. The relatively short season is a blessing and a curse: we don't have to keep up this intense pace all year, but we do have to support ourselves off of an endeavor that doesn't yield much during the winter. I feel fortunate to have been doing this work long enough to have a good feel for what I have to accomplish during the summer in order to make it through the winter. And so many of the farmers and vendors I know wouldn't choose any other kind of life.
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