Fall–or, if you aren’t American, Autumn–has always been my favorite time of year. The weather turns cooler, especially at night, so the mornings and evenings are as crisp as apples, and the leaves do that color-changing trick they do.

Since Corydon started its farmers’ market, though, fall is a little less wonderful. We have a garden of our own, but it isn’t a subsistence garden. We grow enough of a few things to enjoy, but not enough to preserve (except for pickles and pesto, of course). The farmers’ market is our delight. But October is the last month for it. After this, I’ll have to fall back on mass-market food unless or until Corydon gets a Rainbow Blossom or Whole Foods. Without a car that runs on Mr. Fusion, I can’t be running all over five counties to buy turnips.

So I’m singing the blues. I’m being accompanied today by Skip James like this.

FARMERS’ MARKET BLUES

Went to the farmers’ market.
Couldn’t find nothin’ there to eat.
Lord, I went to the farmers’ market
An’ there was nothin’ there to eat;
Just a couple old potatoes
And a shriveled-up ol’ dirty-tastin’ beet.

Uh-huh–

I went to the farmers’ market
An’ it make me like to cry.
Say, I went down to that market
An’ I had to sing the blues or cry.
Nobody had they booths up
‘Cep’ Miz Bruce and that Miller guy.

bl’blang blung

Be no more farmers’ market
End of this month to next June.
Ha’ mercy!
There be no more farmers’ market
From November till way next June.
Be eatin’ from the groc’ry
And singin’ this sad ol’ tune.

–copyright 2011, Marian Allen, tunesmith

WRITING PROMPT: Where does your main character buy his or her food?

MA