Rainy Day People

It rained on Saturday. We’ve done rainy markets before; it rained on our first day.   We set up in the rain beside a couple of fresh-faced teenage vendors chauffeured by their mom. We laughed when we discovered that we’d dubbed each other with the same nickname, “ Rainy Day People.” 

It had rained hard that day, but it was nothing compared to this Saturday. We’d barely got the tent up when the rain began. 

It poured for an hour. Our neighbour, Paul, who hails from the southwest of England along the North Atlantic, intoned, “ Rain before 7, gone by 11.” 

The rain poured harder. 

I’d come prepared. I put on my yellow rain jacket. It was no match for this downpour which soaked me inside and out within minutes. The jacket shrugged on my shoulders. I gave up and took it off.

I tried a new sales pitch. “ Fresh washed veggies!!!”I announced to the few sodden customers racing to the market door. 

The rain kept pouring. Isaiah, the new kid on the vendor block- tall and strong- raced over to our tent and grabbed one of our tent poles, steadying it with Howard to allow what seemed like a tidal wave of accumulated water to pour out. 

The parking lot was now a river. I thought of the fields back home. The rain had washed out half the seedling lettuce crop. 

I looked at the bushels of beans and peas we’d picked the day before. I wanted to cry.

Then I l noticed something. Rainy Day markets are scowling markets. People stomp around in raingear, faces matching the dark rain clouds above. Not today, though. I knew all the vendors shared our concerns, and all the customers were just as soaking wet as we were, but no one was scowling. Almost everyone was laughing. 

When I turned around, Marc, the French baker beside us, had lifted up the parchment filled with sweet crumbs from his almond croissants and, waving Howard and me over, emptied the crumbs into our hands. 

We all laughed because we were - all of us- in that moment Rainy Day People.