Do you still want to go?” my mom wakes me unceremoniously and I know it is the earliest I have gotten out of bed in nine weeks. Grumbling something that sounds like “ugh yes,” I roll over to grab my phone. My eyes are blurry as I check the time. 6:45. There’s no messing around with the farmers market. I lay down to scroll on my phone a little and decide if I actually want to get up and go or if two extra hours of sleep is more beneficial than an adventure to the farmers market. I used to be very diligent about getting up early and not wasting time on my phone in bed after waking up but that seems unnecessary now. First, I scroll Instagram but there usually isn’t anything new from when I checked last night before bed (also something I did not do before), then I reply to my snapchats and check my email to do the NYT daily mini crossword. Today is tough and I get stuck by “Things stuffed into takeout bags” (the answer is MENUS). I just recently got interested in crosswords and reading the NYT Daily morning briefing religiously — the news consumes much of my time. Before I can finish my morning scroll there is a very light knock on my door that would not wake a sleeping person. My mom’s quiet knock lets me know she was leaving soon if I was awake.
“Yes I’m still coming!!” I grumble from underneath my mountain of blankets. I snatch my glasses from my side table and put them on as a yawn overcomes me. With some effort I crawl out of bed and peek through my blinds. The pavement outside is wet from storms during the night and the grass is lush, bright green. However, the sky is a dark grey that warns the rain has not ended. I turn around, open a drawer, and throw on some clothes. I put on a pair of sweatpants that I had not yet worn this week and a t-shirt. Picking my clothes out has become much easier now that I don’t see anyone besides my family. I meander to the bathroom and aggressively brush my teeth. I walk downstairs careful not to wake up my brother and sister who will not wake up for several hours. Moving on autopilot I find a jacket and slip into a pair of running shoes.
“Do we have to wear masks?” I ask my mom.
“Yes, you can carry the money and I will grab the plants. Don’t put your gloves on until you are ready to handle money.”
I grab my gloves and we head into the garage. As I put my seat belt on, we start driving on the deserted streets. My eyes get heavy, but my mom keeps me awake by discussing the movie I watched last night. I reply absentmindedly and my thoughts begin race as we near the market, I’m not sure what to expect.
The farmers market is shockingly busy for a misty, dreary Tuesday at 7:00 AM. The barbecue station is already cooking, and there are customers ready to buy fresh fruits and vegetables. My mom pulls into a parking spot, and I put on my mask.
“Take the hand sanitizer with you, and put the money in a safe pocket,” my mom says as she checks the list of flowers my granny wants.
I get out of the car and shut the door gently. I feel a drop of rain on my forehead and grab the umbrella from the back seat. I slam the door and hustle to catch up with my mom. I open the umbrella and hold on tight. I hope holding the umbrella will stop me from absentmindedly touching things as we pass though the market. We walk up to the area with growers selling their flowers, and I smell the barbeque through my mask. My glasses start fogging up, and I observe all the people bustling around the garden center. Today is the first day the farmers market is open after the stay at home order began, and everyone appears anxious to do something resembling normalcy. The last time my mom and I went shopping was several weeks ago when the online orders were not sufficient for fresh fruits and vegetables. My eyes dart back and forth making sure everyone is wearing a mask and staying six feet away from me and my mom. We stop at a table with lots of flowers in a rainbow of colors. My hands are itching to touch the green leaves and petals, but I remind myself that there could be germs on anything. We browse for a few minutes then my mom walks away to get a cart. I watch as her hand touches the handle and I cringe. I hope she does not touch her face with her gloved hand or try to adjust her mask.
As she pulls the cart over to me I ask, “How do you want me to help you if I’m not supposed to touch anything?” and my mom responds, “Just keep looking around.”
I wander towards another seller with bright red flowers where two ladies are already perusing the merchandise. One of them puts a flower in her hair and tells everyone and no one that she picked it up from the ground and was not stealing. I look away and try focusing my attention on the flowers and avoiding the itch to touch them. I wander for a few more minutes enjoying the novelty of a visit to someplace new. I look at the flowers with my tired eyes, keep my distance from everyone, and try to breathe shallow breaths to prevent fogging up my glasses. With each breath it is getting harder and harder to see. Feeling aimless I turn around to head back to the table my where my mom is shopping. She is aggressively checking the labels on the pots of plants, looking for something my granny must have asked for specifically.
“Did you get everything?” I ask.
With a huff my mom turns around and says that she can’t see anything. Before I can say anything, she takes her gloves off one finger at a time and then removes her glasses. They are completely fogged up, and she wipes them off on her sleeve.
“Try to breathe less,” I offer unhelpfully.
As she puts her glasses back on, she starts looking around for the farmer selling the plants while putting the gloves back on.
The muffled voice of a young, thin, brunette, aproned woman asks, “Do you need help?”
Reading from the list my granny wrote my mom inquires, “Do you have any super bells?”
The lady looks confused but it’s hard to know when you can only see half of her face and your vision is blurred by foggy glasses.
“Farmer Dave, do we have any super bells?” the woman asks an older man scrambling to move flats of flowers to different carts to consolidate his quickly selling products. She had to raise her voice quite a bit, but Farmer Dave still responds with, “What?”
Being careful to articulate and raise her voice behind the mask the woman asks again more slowly, “Do we have any super bells?” to which Farmer Dave replies, “If we do they are over there somewhere,” and makes a general gesture to the table on my left.
My mom and the lady begin checking the tags on each of the plants from opposite sides of the table. Again, I awkwardly stand by and do nothing. My hand tightens around the umbrella as the woman touches the pots without gloves, and I try not to think about all the potential bacteria on the pots, the tables, the cart, and in the air.
“Oh, here they are,” my mom found the super bells. The lady nods and walks away to help other customers as my mom loads the cart with different colors of super bells for my granny to plant.
The cart is full of super bells, geraniums, creeping jenny, and a rainbow of colors. My mom drags the heavy cart over to Farmer Dave, so we can pay for what we picked out. My heart beats a little faster as Farmer Dave calculates the total, and I fumble to get my gloves on to hand him the payment while still holding the umbrella.
“Forty-five,” he informs me plainly.
I nearly drop the umbrella as I scramble to pull the bills out of the bag. I don’t want to touch the money, and I definitely do not want to get close to Farmer Dave even though he is fully masked and gloved.
“Thank you,” he says as I make my first cash payment in over nine weeks.
I shove the bag back in my pocket and readjust the umbrella. I feel my phone buzz in my other pocket but force myself to not check it and potentially contaminate my phone. We make our way back to the car, and I look around at all the people. You would think it was just a normal day at the farmers market besides the masks. People are still friendly and helpful. Their eyes are bright, and I imagine that they are smiling under their masks. Everyone wants a taste of normalcy even if it’s a trip to the farmers market in the early morning of a dreary day. The rain begins to fall harder as my mom opens the trunk with the keys to avoid touching the door.
She loads the plants into the car, and I say, “Sorry I was not much help.”
She turns to me and says, “No you were, and it was nice to have some company doing this stuff.”
Heading out into the real world has become unusual and a welcome break from the routine. I carefully take my gloves off then my mask and breathe in the fresh air. I open the car door and use some hand sanitizer while my mom returns the cart. I open her door for her, so she touches as few things as possible before using hand sanitizer.
As we drive away my mom starts laughing, and says, “Well I wasn’t able to see anything I was buying, I hope we got some good stuff.”
I smile, finally able to relax in the safety of our car, and I wonder how many people are going to take up gardening for the first time just to have a reason to go shopping. We then head to my grandparents’ house to give them their flowers. I check my phone and see that my friends are up. When we get to my grandparents’ house my granny opens the door to say hi, and my mom unloads the flowers onto her porch.
“So we tried to get you everything you wanted but I’m not sure if we did,” my mom tells my granny.
As Granny looks at the plants we have brought her, her eyes are wide and a big smile spreads across her face as she says, “Wow thank you so much this is plenty. Oh these super bells are perfect for the pots along the garden path. Thank you so much! Gosh, you were able to get this much? Was is busy? Were people wearing masks?”
She is thirsty for any detail we can offer about life outside her property and my mom dutifully answers her questions. I watch Granny sort the flowers into small groups to organize how she will plant them. In a few hours her deck will be covered in colorful pots with flowers spilling out over the sides. It is no longer raining, and appears it will be a warm, sunny, May day. The flowers will need to be watered, weeded, and protected from deer, but there is plenty of time now to do all of these things. I imagine Granny on her knees with a trowel aggressively digging holes in the dirt and enjoying the ability to work and create something beautiful. As I come back to reality, I finally understand why my grandad has said he is thankful for the health of our family every year for Thanksgiving. He looks on from the house and offers a small wave of gratitude; we have given Granny something to keep her busy, a beautiful distraction. She, like me, must always be doing something for that sense of personal satisfaction and purpose. I turn back to the car, take a deep breath and start mentally plotting my own garden.
Nicole Rhoads || Oakland County Farmer’s Market || May 14, 2020