It’s warm and the town feels like July. Dust puffs off the gravel roads behind vehicles, settling on windshields. The fortunate ones hunker beside the AC; the rest wipe their faces and sit in the shade.
Except for those who go to Farmers’ Market. This looks familiar by now—the tables set up beside Main Street, the rows of canopies and the weatherbeaten faces behind the wares. The spice man, with his rows of steak rubs and various seasoning blends lined up on tidy racks, his wife sitting in the back, her ever-present cigarette dangling from her lips. The woman who makes tie-died t-shirts, the thin, quiet man selling handmade wooden trays and birdhouses, another woman selling quilts, yet another melting underneath a tent, selling freshly picked lavender.
Several tanned kids set up a volleyball net. Amy and Eva sell mouthwatering breads and pastries. I buy lavender, sell Italian sodas, and watch the game. Several musicians sit down at a picnic table and strum their instruments. Cigarette smoke swirls in the hazy air. People walk through the park, their hips swaying to the music.
Bonnie’s business name is “Fluff and Stuff”. She sells cotton candy and popcorn. She carries a bag of popcorn and cotton candy to our table and she buys sourdough bread. “I love your dresses!” she says. She leans on her cane. “I think I started this business because I just love popcorn. With lots of butter. Mmm.”
We giggle. “I know just what you mean.”
Her face lights up. “You’re a butter girl too?” Her hair hangs in chunks around her face.
She shows me how to make cotton candy. The filmy strands of sugar cling to my arms like spider webs. We make it cherry-flavored. I don’t like it, but I tell her it’s amazing.
It’s even warmer the next Saturday. The heat rises in dizzying waves off of the cement. The park manager helps us set up the canopy. The musicians sit in a circle and we tap our feet. Sun filters through the tree branches. The lavender lady doesn’t show her face.
Bonnie’s here again. We don’t talk. I don’t even go over to her table.
Market closes an hour earlier because of the heat. Accu-weather has an excessive heat warning.
I sell fresh flowers the next Saturday. The breeze keeps blowing my sign over. More vendors come and business is good.

A woman wearing a neon green shirt comes over to our table. “If you girls see a five-year-old boy who’s blond and his name is Peter, bring him over to the information table. He’s missing.”

I find him by the sandbox. “We were playing hide and seek,” he explains. His blond hair glints in the sunshine.

“You are in big trouble, young man!” his mom says. Peter’s grandma gives me a half-hug.

The musicians don’t come and I miss their music. A vendor beside us is selling homemade donuts that look mouthwatering. Tiny black bugs collect on my soda cups. I brush them off and hope no one notices.

Bonnie hobbles over to our table. “I wanted to tell you girls, you are so beautiful!”
We look at each other. “Thank you!”
“Yeah, you don’t think you have to wear makeup like everybody else. It’s that natural beauty that is real. Lipstick takes the color from your lips; don’t ever try it.” She shakes her head, reminding me of a Shetland pony.

I give her an invitation to our youth program. “Thank you,” she says. “I’ll see what I have going on tomorrow night.” She buys two huckleberry pies.

She gives us a slice of cheese we’ve never tried before. It’s really good, this time, and I try to tell her, but she’s making candy for a group of little children clustered around her table.
The next evening, she’s there. I’m excited. After the service, she stops by our pew. “There are my girls!”
I take hold of her hand. “Thanks so much for coming!”
Her lips are thin and pink with lipstick. Her face is wrinkled like a bedsheet and her hair is brown and faded. She beams and turns away.
She’s done all the giving in this relationship, and I the receiving. I feel honored to be her friend.