I am pleased to tell you that commerce is alive and well in Texas and it doesn’t have anything to do with some kind of phased re-opening, its just people doing what they love.

I took a drive this morning because I was bored out of my mind.  I was sick of news reports about things that I couldn’t change, or events in parts of the world that I have never been to.   I drove out west, along I-10 because an Interstate highway is the fastest way to get out of town.  I drove until traffic thinned , somewhere past all the new neighborhoods, and Master Planned Communities that now line both sides of the road for about 60 miles.

I passed by a sign announcing that I was about to leave Sealy, Texas.  As every man in  Texas knows, Sealy’s greatest notoriety came from hosting a bordello, right along the interstate highway, that was both patronized, and protected by, a string of Sealy Sheriffs.  It wasn’t until some nosy Houston reporter made a stink about it that the Texas Rangers were called in and they shut it down.  Sort of.  It was so famous by that time that a book was written which was turned into Broadway play, then into a movie.   The play is still running at the 1840 Playhouse in Galveston twice a year and attracts sell out crowds.

The other thing that Sealy has is a huge discount Mall, where manufacturers sell seconds of everything from clothes to sporting goods.  I’ve never been to the one in Sealy, but I am familiar with the concept, and thought I should drive through and just see if there was anything I couldn’t live without.

I started to make a loop under the freeway to double back to the Mall, when I noticed a sign, caked in mud, bent over from someone hitting it I suppose, that read. “Fulshear   47 Miles”  I thought “I haven’t been to Fulshear in years, since I really have never had a reason to go before now, but now”..

It was a perfectly delightful drive through backwater Farm to Market (F.M.) roads, and there was a lot of them.. You’d be minding your own business driving down this Farm to Market road, admiring farms, and buildings, and tractors, and horses and such when suddenly a new Farm to Market Road would intersect the Farm to Market road that you were on.  I had no idea where this new road would go,  and there weren’t any roadsigns.  I would guess that the people who routinely travel the FM routes, know where they want to go and which road leads there, but I wasn’t yet one of those people and the idea of getting lost on a F.M. road and having to ask for directions just seemed too structured, as if you had a specific place in mind, rather than the destination being the journey itself so I stayed the course on the F.M. road that I knew would eventually  land me in Fulshear.

I came upon a particularly pastoral section of the Farm to Market road and passed a sign, hand painted without benefit of a stencil that read “Sweet Corn”.

It immediately brought to mind the corn-on-the-cobb that we would get growing up  at our Grandmothers house in Kansas.  It wasn’t this anemic variety that we get in stores now.  No, my recollection was ears as long as your forearm, large, plump kernels of  golden yellow corn, roasted with loads of melted butter.

Then, as quick as I had that thought there was a companion sign that said “Peaches”.

“Peaches, too?”, I silently cried.  “I Love, Love, Love fresh juicy peaches!”.

Then another that said “Farm Fresh Veg”.

I started paying attention as I believed there must be a roadside vegetable stand close to where the signs were placed, but I was wrong.  I drove aways, then a bit further and I still hadn’t found the Roadside Vegetable Stand that I knew must be here somewhere.  I was beginning to believe I had missed my stop when suddenly and without suitable warning, there it was.  It only had a three car parking spot and you came upon it pretty fast so its a good thing that not many people use this road on a Sunday afternoon.

Had I been in charge I would have placed the stand at the end of the series of signs so that people would know where to stop.  I see now that would be a mistake.

You want to place the stand far enough down the road that people driving down the road and reading the signs, have enough time to poll everyone they are riding with about whether or not to stop.  In my case I was alone, my decision made, so I traveled some distance looking for this vegetable stand before I found it,

There  was three generations of the Foster family running this stand.  Apparently Foster Sr., well into his sixties I’d say, was the “Patriarch of Produce” and had  all the information about how the produce was grown, and was more than willing to share with others how they could do it themselves if they wanted to.   I inquired about the jalapeño peppers he had in a small crate towards the back.  There wasn’t a sign on them, no prices.  I assumed they were for sale or why would they be at the vegetable stand in the first place.  Well, I’m glad I asked.  Mr Foster said he’d sell me some if I wanted them, but they weren’t jalapeños, they were serranos and they were very , very, hot. I passed on the peppers and walked around some more.

Generation Two of the Fosters were a husband and wife, adults in their own right being in their 30’s I’d guess. They seemed to be in charge of  merchandising, bringing crates of harvested vegetables up to the stand from their pickup truck,  and marshaling  Generation 3, the salesforce which was made up of two teams of very cute young girls who would bag your choices, or get you bags to bag them yourself. The salesgirl assigned to me was probably eight or nine.  She had an assistant salesgirl of about 5 or 6 who was learning the ropes and who stuck to her older sister like glue.

I was impressed that the older girl never lost an opportunity to up sell, “Were you getting three pounds of this today?..or something else?  When I was ready for checkout, the six year old, counted out my purchase to the older sister, who marked each item down on a sales pad, listed the prices, totaled the amount, then took what she had over to her Dad who would check her math.

She was spot on.  I gave her a three dollar tip and expect to see her on The Apprentice in about 15 years.  While I was there an elderly couple pulled up and asked for Mr. Foster by name.  When he came over the guy extended his hand and introduced himself, said he had spoken with him earlier and had driven up from Wharton to get some of Mr. Foster’s purple hulled peas.  Mr. Foster  recalled the conversation and had this gentleman’s purple hulled peas already bagged, tagged, and priced.  It took the elderly shopper longer to tell the farmer how much he appreciated it, and how it was getting harder and harder to find good purple hulled peas like he recalled from his youth, than it did Mr. Foster rounding them up in the first place. Quite a heartfelt moment if you are a purple hulled pea person, I can tell you that.

Anyway, I enjoyed seeing a family work together even if it was only in a  vegetable stand outside a small Texas town.  I’m sure there’s a bigger lesson to be learned here if I’d look for it, but for me, just that Norman Rockwell-esque vignette was a reminder of simpler, safer times, and that my friends, is priceless.