Three Pounds of Flax.

 

I went to my stall at the Farmer's Market 

to sell three pounds of flax.

That's all I had.

The weather had been bad.

First flood. Then drought.

Then hail. Then flood again.

Then a heat wave. And finally a winter tornado.

The flax was the only thing to survive.

My children said not to go, to give up.

Stay home and pull cedar blocks from the 

cellar walls to burn for heat this winter.

But I told them I had faith in the Farmer's Market.

Good people went there.

My kids just laughed at me, 

saying I was dumber than a bolt rope.

"How much for a pound of flax?"

asked a man in a black sleeping bag coat.

"That all depends on what you're going to do with it"

I told him.

He looked at me quizzically,

so I explained:

"If you're going to cook with it, it's five dollars a pound."

"If you're going to spin cloth out of it, it's two dollars."

"If you're using it as mulch, it's only fifty cents."

The great thing about dealing with customers 

at the Farmer's Market is that they are always

down to earth and truthful. 

"Well, I'm gonna take it over to the stall that

sells tomatoes and barter it for a bushel of tomatoes.

So I guess that counts as cooking with it?" he said diffidently.

"Not to worry" I told him.

"I'll trade you a pound of flax for your

sleeping bag coat."

"Can I keep my mad bomber hat?" he asked.

"Of course" I said. "It's cold out here!"

So we made the trade.

Then a guy in a bus driver's uniform sauntered up.

"You have to pay the flax tax, you know"

he said arrogantly to me.

"That'll be ten dollars."

"Like hell it's ten dollars" I told him.

"You're just a bus driver, so beat it!"

He left. But he came back with two more

bus drivers and they tipped over my stall,

spilling my flax all over the cold wet ground.

Now what was I going to do?

Lucky for me, the man who traded his coat for flax

saw the whole thing.

He gathered up all the stall owners,

told them what happened,

then led them to me in groups of twos and threes.

Each one gave me something from his or her stall.

I got green tomatoes. Onions. Dream catchers. Beaded purses.

Dilled okra. Smoked salmon. Dried apples. Mincemeat.

Kettle corn. And so much else.

I sold it all.

By the end of the day I had made enough

to replant my entire crop of winter wheat,

with enough left over to thatch my roof with flax.

Those bus drivers had done me a wonderful turn,

it seems.

I found them huddled against an elm tree,

whittling nutmegs. When I began to thank them

they suddenly grew wings and flew away.

It's like I told my children, 

there's good and more than good

people at the Farmer's Market.