Been thinking about…Rain on the market

We’d only just gotten the farmers market tents up in Wednesday’s early afternoon heat when the breeze changed. Over the westerly ridges dark clouds appeared. Storms over the summer mountains have a special look, a foreboding wall of grays and blues flecked with mist that proves unmistakable. Rain is coming.

Now that the farmers market is on Saturday mornings and Wednesday afternoons, weather reports take on a special significance for me. Watching the seven-day forecast, then the three-day forecast, communicating with vendors, playing weather reporter to our growing community of vendors and friends. It hasn’t helped that this year’s weather patterns have proven difficult to predict. This season’s air has been so laden with moisture that the rains are capricious. Sometimes a 90 percent chance of rain has resulted in a few light showers as we set up the market. Other times, I think we’re in the clear only to be hit with bad weather. The questions from my community are almost always last minute: “Are we having market? Are we setting up? What’s going on?” In the midst of my everyday work schedule, the constant change weighs heavily.

The first raindrops hit the tent, followed by more. Distant rolling thunder echoes in the hollers. Fortunately for us, the storm settles into a lulling early summer rain with no air-to-ground lightning causing us to seek shelter or violent gusts to flip tents when not battened down properly. We settle into the rainy afternoon, looking over glistening green zucchini and red ripe tomatoes as the mountain ridges fade in the mist. “This is a good garden rain,” Dale says thoughtfully and uses his cane to poke the tent canopy, causing a deluge to fall, the water mostly missing the cashbox and the market paperwork.

The secret to farmers markets, much like the secret to everything, isn’t magic or luck but just plain old consistency. New vendors aren’t always used to our commitment but to us, being consistent is not some fancy brand verbiage but is instead integral to our culture, what makes us Ozarkers, and also how we survive. We don’t cancel a market unless the roads are impassable. And if the weather truly looks scary for outdoor tents, we can setup inside at Vintage Paris, the now-iconic bright yellow coffee shop here on the ridge. A lot of locals still remember when this building was an ice cream parlor but for the past six years, the boxy big structure partially hidden by red cedar — and just across from the Branson Scenic Overlook on Historic Highway 165 halfway between Hollister and Table Rock Dam — has been home to a community built by the Vintage Paris family of regulars. And since May of last year, Vintage Paris has become my home away from home as we host markets there all year long.

Despite the rains, our vendors stick it out with us and during the lulls, folks still come out, buying the fresh produce, the baked goods, the handmade wares. Most leave with a coffee in hand. The unreliable nature of this season’s weather is hard for someone who is wired as I am. I like things that are assured, and few surprises. Farmers market life is all about surprises, little reminders that life is never perfect but it is often good. “You’re gonna have a stroke if you don’t calm down,” says Dale drily. His words aren’t exactly empty. My farmers market co-manager, publisher and mentor did have a stroke two years ago. His perseverance to recover has been inspiring, even through the valleys and shadows. I breathe a little more easily. The important thing is sticking it out through tough moments, not running away from them, I remind myself.

Before the Wednesday afternoon is over, the rains have passed. Clear skies breeze in from the west. Over the ridge, the waters of Table Rock Lake turn all silver. The sun is hot on my face again, recent storms just billowing ghosts far off over eastern Taney County. The sarvisberry leaves are a brilliant spring green in the early evening glow. I recognize the day’s frustrations, now mostly passed, as I step over the gnarled cedar roots, careful not to trip and fall. Nobody said life in the Ozarks was easy, as countless in the past have also learned. Still, if I woke up in the morning and could never run another farmers market, or write another article, or manage another festival? I’d long for these days again, and pray for another chance, just one more to be here, in the moment, again, just to watch the rain on the market.