Chapter 59

Your normal Farmer’s Market doesn’t have live Panpipe music ... from Peru.

Your normal Farmer’s Market doesn’t have a refrigerated van with hanging beef halves ... cut and wrapped as you like it. Or a local butcher who grinds your burger while you watch. Twice a season the butcher features locally raised buffalo cut Native style. No bones. Your normal Farmer’s Market doesn’t have buffalo ... or goat ... or emu ... and today was the day.

Your normal Farmer’s Market doesn’t have fresh smoked whitefish, salmon or lake trout, live clams or giant crayfish ... cooked to order ... on the spot.

Your normal Farmer’s Market doesn’t have yachties from out of state ... or out of country ... who spend seven or eight thousand dollars shopping in one go.

Your normal Farmer’s Market doesn’t have 20 different kinds craft beer by the keg ... delivered to your boat, home or party.

I’ll tell you right now ... if you can buy it in the supermarket produce department ... you can get it cheaper, fresher and washed at Ludington’s Farmer’s Market Friday only from May to September.

Even if your Market has ALL that ... they don’t have the Mendoza Food truck. Ludington only.

My senses were overwhelmed ... I gave up.

“Somebody shop for me, please. I’ll pay.”

I had figured the cute little trailer we hauled behind the golf cart would have plenty of room. Nope.

Missy showed up with her older sister, “Bea,” by way of introduction, “Said she’d shop.”

“But I need to look at your boat first,” Bea said.

“Missy?”

“Yes ma’am. Come on Bea.”

They were gone half an hour.

“That’s quite the boat, well stocked with canned goods. What man shopped?”

David tootled his fingers.

“Hello, David. That looks like your work. But I didn’t find the rice and dried beans.”

“Aft ... in the sugar-scoops.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t stock ship’s biscuit and salt horse.”

She turned to me, “How much for how long and where?”

I handed her the remains of the five grand I got at the bank yesterday, and said, “Shakedown cruise. The Princess is the one to ask about how long. David is going back to Pentwater at noon. So there’s just the two.”

“Not a piker ... good. Allergies?”

“Grapes ... and grape products. Bee stings and penicillin,” I said.

“Well ... that’s different. Junior? Any allergies?”

Junior was looking at me as if I was insane. She said, “No grape?”

I nodded.

“No wine?” Junior whined.

“Not a drop ... no raisins, no steak sauce, no French cuisine.”

“You sound like my Aunt Wendy. Are you SURE you’re not related to us?”

While Junior and I were discussing my shortcomings, I could see Miss Bea Simmons checking exes in her mind... none of this, none of that, none of the other ... what Can she eat?.

“Regular food,” I said. “You know ... steak and potatoes, fish and chips ... malt vinegar is ok. Ranch Dressing on my salad ... and beer. Since I’m pregnant ... not a lot of that. Beer cooked German Brats ... stuff like that ... and cheese. Lots of cheese. I didn’t see cheese at the Market.”

“They don’t show up until noon,” Bea said.

“Oh ... Italian. I love Italian.”

Bea shopped and Junior followed. David went home. I went to the beach ... the sand was glorious but the water was cold.

Note to self ... better foul weather gear.

I rented a lounge and caught up on my tan. Bea and assorted Market crew were in and out of the boat right up to Market close.

We stayed a second day. 90 bucks. Ludington has Michigan foul weather gear and Bea knew where and how much.

The oddest thing ... she sailed with us.

When we were dropping dock lines she tossed the last line and stepped aboard.

“Local knowledge,” She said. “And a third hand.”

She was worth every penny.