The week flew by and before we knew it the monthly farmers market was upon us. I decided that morning to try my hand at making some pancakes since I never went to sleep the night before and, despite burning a few, they turned out pretty good. I was dressed in my favorite pair of jeans, and my vintage cream sweater, covered with a red plaid overshirt. I was standing at the mirror by the front door, throwing my hair back into a ponytail when Grandpa honked the truck horn; it was time to get down to the market.

It was a tight squeeze in the cab of the truck but thankfully a short ride from the farm to the spot where we set up the booth. The town would close down a section of the roads and market stalls would be set up all along the cobblestone streets. They had live music, all sorts of local artists, food stalls, and of course, fresh produce. The businesses nearby would all set up outdoor tables to sell their own merchandise, including my favorite bakery. Since we were vendors, we were allowed to drive past the blockade and right up to our area to set up. Grandpa had been out the night before to put up the tables, chairs, and awning. Unpacking went very quickly thanks to the extra helping hands Casimir provided. We chatted quickly with our neighbors, waving at all the familiar faces of our fellow vendors.

I was setting up a sample tray of apple butter on tiny biscuits when Grandpa called over to me.

“How’s it going, Diana? All set up?” He asked.

“Looking good, Grandpa!” I called back. “I have the food samples all ready and the last of the apple butter is on display!”

Grandpa’s smile widened as he placed his hands on his hips. “The crowds will be here soon. I’m going to run a quick delivery and be right back.”

“Okay,” I responded. It wasn’t unusual for Grandpa to leave me alone at the booth for a few hours and I knew he had been wanting to show Casimir his delivery routes. “Just remember to be back in time for my coffee break!” I told him. I had made plans with Zola and Sunita earlier in the week to grab a coffee during my break. Later we were going to explore the market before heading back to the farmhouse for a movie.

“Of course!” My grandfather chirped back. He turned to Casimir who was gathering the tools and putting them back into the toolbox, a tarp stuck under his arm. “Ready to go, Casimir?”

“Sure thing, sir,” he said, lifting the heavy toolbox with ease.

I reached out to tug on Grandpa’s sleeve before he could walk away, a serious tone to my voice. “I mean it! Don’t get distracted and abandon me,” I insisted. “And don’t let Mr. Lucas suck you into another two-hour story about the book he is reading! Okay?”

“Yes, dear…” he murmured. My grandfather had the good graces to look slightly embarrassed because he had done those things to me several times during past farmers’ markets which had caused us to come up with the schedule.

“Hey there, party people!” A familiar voice called out.

“Judy!” both Grandpa and I called out, happily. The familiar image of the tour guide in her bright blue vest and salt and pepper hair was always a welcome sight indeed. She sauntered over to us, waving merrily as she did.

“Booth looks great as usual,” she commented, glancing up and down at the homemade wooden awning with its hand-painted signs. I thought the rustic look went well with the cute jars she picked out for her apple butter. The sugary sauce was made by Judy in her free time as she had a passion for preserves and sauces. Anyone who was a friend of the tour guide looked forward to Christmas when she would gift her creations by the dozens. Everyone who tried her preserves agreed she should be selling them but Judy, who didn’t much like the hassle of retail, refused, so grandfather offered to sell in her stead. She always insisted that my grandfather grew the best apples anywhere so they quickly became fast friends and we were never without apple butter or jam because of it.

Judy clapped her hands together, a large smile on her face as she glanced between Grandpa and Casimir. “Which one of you strapping young lads would like to help me carry the last of the apple butter to the booth?”

“Oh, you finished?” Grandpa asked.

“Yep! New batch this morning!”

“I can help,” Casimir offered.

Grandpa seemed a little disappointed but he nodded in agreement as he spoke. “I guess Casimir can grab the apple butter and I can run the last of the deliveries on my own.”

“Watch out for Old Lady Frink, she’s looking for you,” Judy warned with a chuckle. Grandpa smiled dryly and I had to stifle a laugh. Mrs. Frink was the elderly woman who owned one of the souvenir shops in town. She sold postcards and other trinkets and was always chasing after Grandpa when she saw him. My grandfather never seemed interested in her advances but he also seemed hesitant to rebuke her openly.

We all parted ways, Casimir and Judy leaving to grab the apple butter as Grandpa and I said our goodbyes. I gave him a kiss on the cheek, telling him to drive safely before returning to the booth.

The market was slow to open but once the first ferry came in, the crowds arrived. Soon I was selling and answering questions about the town to any curious tourists who approached the booth. For some reason, I had the type of face that said, ‘ask me about this town’. My grandfather would joke that I should work at the information booth near the ferry.

I stifled a yawn as I restocked a few jars of apple butter onto our table. There was a lull in business so I sat down in the chair, pulling out my book for English class. I knew I had at least two chapters to read before the weekend was over, so I might as well get to it.

"How much?"