May 20, 2021 — New Bedford, Pennsylvania
It was one of those warm Pennsylvania days when the sun was bright but the air hadn’t yet become heavy with summer humidity. I was visiting my daughter Danielle and her family, and that morning she was working at the New Bedford Farmers Market as part of her Farm-to-Table Food Literacy Program.
While Danielle worked, I had the wonderful job of taking my three granddaughters—Neala, Mae, and baby Micheala—for a walk through the market.
Neala, never one to pass up an opportunity to make a new friend, seemed determined to say hello to nearly everyone we passed.
And there were plenty of people to greet.
The market was filled with all the things you hope to find at a small community farmers market: tables overflowing with fresh fruits and vegetables, plants waiting to find new gardens, wild mushrooms, baked goods, lemonade, handmade soaps, roasted coffee, and even mead. Somehow, among all those farmers, bakers, growers, and makers, there was even a dentist.
I loved it.
There was something so satisfying about being surrounded by people offering things they had grown, gathered, baked, brewed, or made themselves. There were smiling faces, conversations between neighbors, children wandering beside their parents, and the simple pleasure of being outside together in the fresh air.
Danielle was there for a purpose of her own. Through her Farm-to-Table program, she was working to connect people with local food and the people who produced it. That day, part of her work involved delivering cheese to a local wine purveyor—a small exchange that seemed to perfectly capture what the market was about: local people supporting local people.
Afterward, we set off in search of somewhere to eat.
Main Street was beautiful in the sunshine, although many of the businesses were closed. It didn’t matter much. We simply turned our walk into a window-shopping adventure.
That was when Danielle and I overheard Neala and Mae discussing wedding dresses.
They were only three and four years old, yet they studied those dresses with the seriousness of brides planning their own weddings.
There were bright pink dresses and pale blue ones, pink with black polka dots, gowns trimmed in lace, sparkling blue dresses and deep ruby red ones that nearly reached the floor. The girls talked about which ones they liked and what they might wear when they became brides someday.
Danielle and I listened, completely entertained.
I remember thinking how funny—and sweet—it was to hear such little girls already imagining weddings and beautiful dresses.
A little farther along, the antique shops offered another temptation. Costume jewelry glittered from the windows, immediately catching their attention.
But it was Neala who surprised me most.
After all the sparkling dresses and jewelry, she stopped at a completely different kind of window.
It belonged to a World War II Army and Air Force shop.
Suddenly she was fascinated by old military cooking equipment, helmets, gas masks, and all sorts of wartime paraphernalia displayed behind the glass. She studied it with the same keen interest she had given the dresses.
I couldn’t help but smile at the contrast.
One moment: lace, jewels, sparkling gowns, and dreams of being a bride.
The next: helmets and gas masks.
That was Neala—already curious about the world in all its variety.
Eventually, our wandering brought us to Maddy Lou’s BBQ, where we settled in for lunch. Everyone enjoyed their meal, including little Micheala, who was apparently not interested in being treated like the baby of the group.
We ordered her a plate of her own.
She finished the whole thing.
Looking back, there was nothing extraordinary about what we did that day. We walked through a farmers market. We window-shopped. We listened to little girls talk about wedding dresses. We ate barbecue.
And yet, that is exactly what makes the memory precious.
It was a beautiful sunny day spent with my daughter and three little granddaughters, wandering through a community where people still grew things, made things, knew one another, and gathered together.
I felt inspired.
I didn’t fully understand it at the time, but something about that day stayed with me. There was a simplicity and connection in the way people lived and gathered there that made me begin to look beyond the suburban life I had always known.
I couldn’t have imagined then where that feeling would eventually lead—or that Danielle and her family would one day be living with us as they worked toward building a home of their own.
I only knew that I was happy.
Sometimes the days we remember most aren’t the grand occasions.
They’re simply the days when we had nowhere else we needed to be, and we were walking together.