Growing up in Alabama, I’d hear about the farmer’s market from my parents.

“Where is it?” I’d ask, bright eyed and full of wonder, Dr. Pepper and Kit Kat bars.

“Right over there” would be the reply, accompanied by a subtle gesture towards collapsing buildings and a water tower made entirely of rust.

I imagined two card tables, a lockbox, and 17 tomatoes in various stages of decay.




Like this, but with more rotting vegetable matter

Like this, but with more rotting vegetable matter

What else could possibly be there?

Maybe an unripe watermelon

Sprouting potatoes…

Broken bicycles?

This soon became irrelevant as my family planted a garden in the backyard and we grew our own tomatoes, watermelons, and broken bicycles.

And then I moved to Nashville.

Someone says, “Why, yes, I frequent the farmer’s market!”

And I ask, “Where is it?” still full of wonder and Dr. Pepper, but now with an added four shots of Jim Beam.

He makes a dramatic gesture, both arms flailing about, knees slightly bent, back arched, head back…

…but I still don’t know where he pointed.

I imagine he was pointing directly into Heaven:

Never ending golden fountains of fresh cow’s milk, spraying in all directions, back lit red, green, blue, magenta; the colors changing in time with sounds of peaches falling from trees, each one landing in perfect display… A pyramid of peaches!

Seventy cantaloupes hang from the sky.

Say “Cantaloupe, please,” and one falls into your arms, coos like a baby, and then never does anything else like a baby, because it’s a melon, and that’s weird.




You can't do this with a baby.

You can't do this with a baby.

Apples line the streets

The streets are made of corn husks

There are barrels of beets…

…crates of carrots

And you never hear anyone asking if winter squash is in season…

Because everything is in season, all the time.

You see friends shaking hands, saying ‘how do you do?’

Bees making honey so sweet, they’ll apologize if they sting you.

You forget your problems when you get there

And by the time you leave, all your problems have solved themselves

Yes, my friends, the West Nashville Farmer’s Market is nothing short of perfect.

I’ve never been.

But I’ve heard good things.