Shepherding Outdoors: Neighbors

BY WALT MERRELL

Our youngest daughter, Banks, is 13. Blonde-haired and blue-eyed, she is the epitome of the all-American girl. Her smile is infectious and seems to rival the morning sun in its radiance. Of course, I am a little biased. She has a twinkle, though… one that is inescapable. Not inescapable in the sense that she is irresistible… rather, her twinkle can turn your worst mood into something, well… at least mildly tolerable. But most times, her twinkle reminds you to smile. And that is enough.

So, it’s not surprising that she finds joy in spreading joy. Joy, that is… of the floral sort.

Farmers Markets are a time-honored tradition and a staple in many Southern towns. Andalusia is no different. Every Wednesday afternoon and Saturday morning in the summer, farmers, hobbyists, crafters, and gardeners from all over the county would spread their wares out across tables and blankets that covered the Court Square. Our favorite vendor, the McKathan boys — probably no older than Banks — could grow the best sweet corn. Huge golden kernels that popped with fresh sweet juicy flavor… it was like no other. “Must be something in the dirt,” I remarked to Banks on one occasion. She just rolled her eyes at my explanation as to why their corn was so much better than my own. Their dad is an old friend, and their mom was usually with them at the market. She’d sit off to the side and let the boys handle their business. And, like a good neighbor, we’d buy their wares.

Hannah usually took the girls to the market. They’d buy sweet treats from Mrs. Henderson, who always made some of the best homemade desserts you could find. Occasionally, Hannah would come home with a weeping hibiscus, or some knock out ginger lily that she bought from Ms. Marie Williams… or some other green thing that she probably made up a name for… like I would know the difference. They always came back with big red tomatoes from the Reycrafts and a bag of fresh produce from the other vendors. But more than anything else, they always came back talking about our neighbors, their troubles and their triumphs, and the joys of life.

And it never failed that I’d be somewhere in town, and someone would remark, “I saw Banks and Hannah at the Farmer’s Market this week. She sure is sweet!” I’d grin, not knowing which “she” they were referring to… and certainly not wanting to acknowledge that, perhaps, one of them was not sweet! But usually, they meant Banks… and “she” is. She learned it from her Momma. And her neighbors.

“Daddy, I want to plant flowers to sell at the Farmer’s Market,” she declared, at the ripe old age of ten.

“Well, I think that sounds pretty good, but we will have to talk to Momma about that first,” I responded, careful not to discourage her, but surely not with any commitment… for fear that Hannah would not approve. But, she approved, and so it was… that Banks’ budding enterprise began. Soon enough, it was time to plant.

Hannah’s father, George Gantt, had planted wildflowers for years. I’ll never forget the time he caught two folks from Wisconsin in the flower bed at The Cottle House Bed and Breakfast picking all his wildflowers. The expression, “Madder than a wet settin’ hen” comes to mind. He might have been more frustrated with me than he was those flower pickers… I’m afraid I wasn’t always the best garden hand. Still though, he always found the patience and the time through the years to teach me as he went. “You mix the seed in with grits…” he said. “Gives the spreader something bigger to fling than just those tiny Zinnia seeds.” He was always neighborly about it… quick to overlook my almost non-existent understanding of anything “green.”

And Hannah and I taught Banks those same lessons… passing the lessons down and preserving them for the future.

The seed was dark black against the creamy contrast of the dry grits. Banks twirled the handle of the hand spreader and grinned. The blades whirred at her belly as the grit grains blew in the wind. She squinted her eyes to protect them, but she never hinted at stopping. Her pace quickened as she glanced down at the hopper. “I’m not gonna have enough,” she called out, coughing up a few dry grits as she finished. And she was right. “That last row will just look funny,” Hannah commented. “But it will be fine.” And it was.

A few weeks went by, and neighbors from around the Straughn community would stop and inquire.

“What you gonna do with all those flowers?”

“Make sure you put them straight into water when you cut them!”

“You gotta get in there and pull those weeds.”

All good, neighborly concerns… and a few pieces of good advice, too. And Banks listened… and worked and kept her garden up.

After six weeks or so, her efforts had really shown themselves worthy. Zinnia stalks stood 14 or 16 inches tall, and they danced in the late spring breezes like sea oats blowing in the Gulf Shores sea breeze. Banks waded through the waist-high green leaves holding the buds between her fingertips… inspecting them and giving them her approval. Hannah supervised the inspection process… I was simply there for moral support… They’d prune the "deadwood" and pull weeds as they went. The wind flicked Banks’ ponytail, and her blue eyes bounced across the waving sea of green as she slung bushels of weeds to the outside edge of the bed. “There are some more, Daddy!” she’d holler through the wind. I’d mosey over and scoop up the dead invaders, banishing them to the bed of the truck, and, soon enough, the burn pile.

A few weeks passed, and the days grew longer. School was out but work never stops. I left an hour or so early that Friday… the next day would be the first day of the summer season for the Farmers Market, and it would be Banks’ first day selling her wares. Hannah had already helped her gather a money box and some tablecloths to cover our old rickety fold-up table. A few camping chairs would be nice to rest tired legs through the heat of the day, and the vases and jars they had assembled looked like soldiers lined up to charge the western front. From mason to peanut butter, there was nearly one of every type. Some blue, some clear, some huge, and others more normal in size.

“How many flowers should we cut?” Banks asked Hannah. Thankful she didn’t ask me, Hannah said, “I’d cut ten dozen on your first day, and just see how things go.” So, we did… carefully selecting only those flowers that were in full bloom, to avoid over ripening, if you will. Anna and Heidi (The Martin Homestead on FB) passed by, and seeing us in the patch, they turned and came back. “I’ll buy a dozen from you right now, Banks!” Her eyes grew wider and brighter as Heidi handed her eight dollars. “And don’t worry… we will buy some from you every week!” And they did… because they, too, are neighborly.

Banks’ first few years at the farmers market went great… Hannah and I alternated “assistant” duties and Banks sold out every weekend. In fact, she usually sold all of her flowers within just a few hours. She made great friends and grew fond of her “regulars” too. She became a “staple”… and she was only 10.

This past year was her third year at the market. On opening day Banks and I arrived on the Court Square around 6:45. A few vendors were already setting up, and our sweet friend and neighbor, Allison Gordon –the manager over the farmers market – was eager to welcome Banks as a new vendor. We set up her table and carefully placed her hand-painted signs and bouquets, and she was all set.

“I love you, sugar.” I offered, holding her hand. “I love you too, Daddy,” came her quick response.

“Mrs. Allison is here. There is Mrs. McKathan, too. If you need anything you just ask them and they will take care of you.” Banks confidently nodded in affirmation, and with that… I turned and left my daughter on the square… with our neighbors. An hour and a half later, my Bible study concluded, I returned to find her sold out and perusing the other vendor's booths. Banks was always good to patronize the other booths… it was her way of being neighborly… of saying ‘thank you.’

Some folks from time to time ask, “Do you think it’s a good idea to leave her by herself?” And granted, as the District Attorney, I know better than most what a twisted world we live in. But Hannah and I pledged long ago to "train them up in the way they should go," and the path to maturity and adulthood can’t be paved with fear and lack of responsibility. On the contrary, Banks was surrounded by good neighbors. We knew they would tend to her every need, and she would learn much about the way she should go…

That is the way we all should go, isn’t it? To love our neighbor? Maybe the world would be a little bit better if we’d all love a little more and fret a little less. And as Hannah says, “A little love makes for a good garden too.”