Sandy
Light broke over her as she lifted her sunglasses and stepped out from under the shade of the tented awning.
“Thank goodness,” she muttered, staring up at the sky as the clouds began to part, the sun’s rays reaching down like swords, scattering the grayness to the four winds.
Hopefully it was a sign that her day would be busy. Lowering the cheap aviator-style gold sunglasses back onto her face, she busied herself with setting up her booth. She arranged her crops so that the most aesthetically pleasing ones were up front, thereby attracting the window shoppers in. Veggies on the left, her few remaining fall fruits on the right. She even still had a few bushels of apples left, which she hoped would sell well. One of these days she really needed to do pumpkins. Everyone always asked if she had pumpkins.
If I just had more time. Or more hands. Then I could have whatever everyone needed.
There was only so much land that she could work on her own in a day, and Sandy needed to be careful that she didn’t exceed that, else she might find herself wasting crops. Money was tight enough as is, and she couldn’t afford that. Not now. Her next property-tax bill was coming up due soon, and she needed to eke out every cent to be able to pay it.
Otherwise Rusty was going to have a field day.
Sandy stepped back from the display of her wares. Fiddling with the wrists of her red, black, and white plaid flannel shirt, she started to roll them up, hoping that her hands would stop shaking once she was done. They didn’t. Angrily she shoved them in her pockets and walked back to her truck, grabbing one of the bushels of apples from the back of it.
Hauling the loaded basket back to her tent, she plunked it down on the ground in front of the tables. By this point her anger at herself had banished the fearful shaking, allowing her to step back into the sun and take another look at her booth.
It looked all right, she had to admit. Some of the other farmers who came out had displays much larger, but they were also much more intimidating. Sandy found she did well enough, especially as a woman. Many of the male farmers were just too aggressive. Many of the shoppers were women, and they dealt better with Sandy’s relaxed attitude. She would sell what she could, and that was just going to have to be okay with her.
The market, having no name besides “The Farmers Market” to the locals, was set up on a chunk of flat land at the corner of two streets. It wasn’t anywhere important. In fact, she had no idea how it had even started. All she knew was that if anyone wanted to come sell their crops, this was the place to be. Sandy had only been coming there for three years now, so she was still the new kid on the block, but it amazed her at just how many locals, and even shoppers from the city, would come to the middle of nowhere for some fresh crops.
She knew if she could just work more of the ground on her farm she could actually make a living at it. Or at least pay her bills. The farm was long since paid for, a family property that she’d inherited. It was just the taxes and utilities that she needed to pay for. Unfortunately, she didn’t have the money to bring in any hired help. Nor was she comfortable with the idea.
Sandy was a recluse. That was the entire reason why she’d moved to the farm from the city. Well, part of the reason at least. She hadn’t always been a hermit, but now she hated dealing with people. Even her buyers.
“Hey Sandy.”
She jerked suddenly as the voice sounded from behind her. “Dammit John, you know I hate being sneaked up on.”
The elderly farmer frowned, stroking his graying beard slowly before he spoke. “I didn’t sneak up on anyone, Sandy. You were staring out into the middle of nowhere. I stamped over here with all the noise and creaks and angry muttering that you can expect from an old man such as m’self.”
Sandy smiled. If there was anyone she could stomach talking to for a few minutes, it was John Landy. He was well known to everyone, having been a farmer in the region for as long as he’d lived. For whatever reason he’d taken a liking to her when she’d shown up. Every weekend at the market he came to say hello, and every weekend she made the same small talk before running away from the conversation.
She didn’t want friends. Couldn’t have friends. Sandy didn’t want anyone growing close to her. It would only lead to trouble. Just let her sell her crops and she would be fine.
“I just wanted you to know that Rusty is here today,” John said, concern filling his voice. “I don’t know if that’ll help, but I didn’t want you to be surprised by his presence.”
“Thanks, John.” She fiddled with her sunglasses, then took off her ball cap. Her ponytail slid through the back, and she wiped her forehead against her arm before exhaling heavily.
Rusty.
“I’ll be okay,” she assured the old man. “It won’t be like last time, trust me.”
John peered up at her, making her wonder if he did indeed need glasses. Then he nodded. “Yeah, I suppose you will be. Okay, Sandy. Have a good one.”
“You too, John. You too.” She watched the old man totter off back to his booth, a wry smile on her face. He was a good man.
Stashing the black ball cap between her legs, she pulled the elastic from her hair and shook it out briefly. The rose-pink strands fell just to her shoulders, barely grazing them. The dyed strands were the only “girly” concession she allowed herself to have. Otherwise it was a flannel shirt, denim suspenders, and big tan-colored mud boots.
At first she’d thought it a ridiculous outfit, but now she saw the practicalities. While all it would take was a piece of straw in her mouth to complete the stereotypical outfit, she didn’t care. How others saw her wasn’t something Sandy gave a shit about. Not anymore at least.
There was a time where that was different though, she recalled to herself.
That was her past life, though. One filled with power suits, sitting at the head of the table in boardrooms for meetings. She’d been good at it. Damn good even. Sandy had risen like a meteor, jumping from corporation to corporation as she sought out higher positions. At each level she dominated the competition, proving herself better than the rest.
Shaking her head angrily, she dismissed the thought. That was the old Sandy. Power suits and power attitude. She’d mastered those. But crop rotations and fertilizers were getting the best of her.
Just hire someone.
She’d heard that before. Bringing in a helping hand or two so that she could work more land would make things easier. There was only one problem with that.
Sandy wasn’t going to allow anyone on her property. She couldn’t.
So day after day she toiled away on her own. Seeding, tending, harvesting. Every stage, whatever each crop needed, she did it herself. What it meant was that much of her land lay fallow, unused and rejuvenating itself. Her crops grew swiftly, well fed from the nutrient-rich land since she wasn’t even coming close to over-farming it.
But it wasn’t much of a life. Holidays were nonexistent, and sick-days were only a thing if she was passing out from standing up. Otherwise she was out there, rain or shine, doing what needed to be done.
More than once she’d asked herself if she’d made the right choice.
“Get yourself together, woman. This is the life you chose. It’s the life you want. It’s perfect. And private. Everything you need.”
Sandy finished tying her hair back and pulled the ponytail through her cap, setting it on her head.
Okay, it was game time.