When the summer finally arrives in Humboldt County, one of the activities I most look forward to is attending our local farmers market. Every Saturday morning, the Arcata Plaza turns into a mini-festival, beckoning the locals to come out with their baskets or mesh bags to buy local produce and enjoy music, tasty treats, and on very rare occassions, some unfilitered sunshine.
Last Saturday, I woke up, looked outside, and declared "This looks like a great day to attend farmers market!" My partner and I got dressed, grabbed our produce bag, and drove to the Plaza.
Why this matters below the fold.
We have a farmers market ritual where we do one "lap" just to look, compare prices, and scout the lay of the land. It was croweded that day; sunshine always brings out the masses. Children run around on the lawns chasing each other, or they climb trees, or they sit with their parents on the lawn munching on their purchases. Later this summer it will be peaches, but this time of year the strawberries and cherries seem to be in abundance.
We did our warm up lap, weaving in and out of the people clusters that often congest the "track." We scoped out the best stands. I'm always drawn to the herbs for some reason--something about the way they are cut and bundled--so fresh and fragrant. I never leave without buying some herbs. We said hi to some colleagues we spied chasing their four year old around, bought a cup of coffee, and then began our purchase lap: two bunches of lavender, some garlic, a beautiful head of red-leaf lettuce. All the while, we're people watching, as Arcata really is a bounty of the beatiful and strange. Farmers, children, hippies, college professors, and unfortunately, always a contingent of the homeless.
There's something about Arcata that draws the homeless. Some say its our food banks and shelters; others say its the pot. Anyway, they're always there, lurking on the outskirts of the market. Some try to sell their hemp jewelry, while others pan handle. But they're always there, and its arguable whether they add to or detract from the atmosphere.
On our final lap, I spied a strawberry stand manned by two hispanic farmers busily conducting transactions. Lurking nearby was a lanky man in a dirty blue hoodie pulled up over his head. He was clearly some kind of addict; he had that pallid, sick look that comes from too many drugs, not enough food, and a sort of desperation that sets them apart--that furtive look, eyes darting to and fro--looking for something, anything to feel better. I saw him stop in front of the strawberry stand, and I stopped a few feet away to watch him. "Look at that guy" I told my partner. "He's going to steal some strawberries." He just looked way too interested, but not the kind of interested that would make him stand in line and purchase the stawberries. So we stood back and watched, just to see what would happen. I was really interested in whether he would get away with it.
Then he shifted toward the back of the fruit stand where the cash box was, advancing and then retreating as the busy farmers made change and sold their berries. "He's going for the cash" I whispered.
"Yep, he sure is" she replied. "
I'm going to say something to those guys if he does it," I said.
There was something about those two guys selling their berries, and the thought that some addict was going to steal from them that made me stay where I was. Just in case, ya know. Usually I mind my own business and don't pay much attention to the dirty, homeless folks who litter the streets of our quaint little town. I see them, but I pretend not to, just like most folks, I suppose.
So, there I was planning my intervention, mapping out how I would simultaneously watch his escape route and also alert the farmers. As I was doing this, the guy kept inching closer and closer to the cash box. I could almost feel his anxiety and desperation. He was going to do it, no doubt about it. I waited, poised like a cat about to pounce on a mouse. Then, without even looking up from the cashbox, one of the farmers grabbed a handful of huge, lucious stawberries, three total I think, and extended his arm out, offering the berries to the homeless guy. He grabbed them, turned away, and greedily popped one into his mouth. He then walked away--away from the stand, away from the cashbox stuffed full of hard-earned ones, and away from his plan to steal from the farmers.
I looked at my parnter: "Did you see that?"
"Yeah," she replied. "Wow."
It occured to me then that they had seen him all along, had known what he was about to do and diffused the situation with three strawberries. For those guys, they didn't need to shout at him or shoo him away like a hungry stray, nor did they need my vigilante help. They offered him something, a token, a peace offering. Here man, have some strawberries, but don't steal from us, okay? It was an unspoken truce which both parties understood and from which each benefitted.
So often in my own life when I sense a threat, I get my back up, ready to take action, look for the nearest exit or anything that will suffice as a weapon. But like the elder cat who walks away from a harmless, yet hissing kitten, those guys sensed that he was weak, and revealing their calm, peaceful, strength, they did not need to hurt him.
Three strawberries was all it took. Amazing. I'm still reeling from the lesson.