The Rusted, Creaking Rambler Car Turned In To The Maine Farm Driveway Seeking Produce, Fresh Veggies.

At nine years old I remember serving a local customer for vegetables, produce that we grew on our Maine farm and scratching my head confused, perplexed.

Because the driver of the rusted Rambler automobile was not overly concerned about money for vegetables.

Nothing like the same way the last farm stand vegetable customer in the shiny new Lincoln car was.

The Rambler driver very pleasant, friendly.

Did not try to beat me up on the price or use any strong arm negotiating black belt tactics because I was just a kid.

Asked me to just pick out whatever thirteen ears of corn in the pile I wanted to complete her purchase at our small simple Maine roadside vegetable farm stand.

And she gave me a dollar tip which I thought strange. From behind the nine year old set of eyeballs I thought she better hang on to that dollar, it might be close to her last. To use to pass car inspection. Get a windshield sticker or to buy more gas, oil.

Or bailing twine, hay wire, duct tape to perform a McIver like repair to keep the tin Lizzy going.

Pleasant, free from a nine year old's perspective with her money. And so unlike the Lincoln driver who was a tad snarky, demanding, and who proceeded to go through almost each and every ear of corn in the fresh pile I had picked after school of about fifty dozen. We would sell thirteen ears, my Dad and Mom figuring a baker's dozen would be just in case a worm showed up in an ear.

The corn was Maine farm fresh.

There were no corn bores, worms, irregularities with the Maine farm vegetables.

The price was hideously low and our farm fresh vegetable roadside stand selection vast.

Pick the large yellow ears of Early King corn. Or the smaller but sweeter Sugar and Gold white and yellow corn ears.

Wrapped in purple and green or just green with brown silk coming out the top of the corn ears the two biggest "people's choice" from the tabulated vegetable sales results.

At the end of the transaction as the lady with keys to the Lincoln ripped open, abused about two dozen ears of corn, some she took, some she tossed back in the pile of produce bounty in the barn on the farm where I grew up. 

She did not seem happy, making me somehow feel responsible.

Complaining about the cost of anything we were peddling for produce. I did not expect a tip, did not get one. And worried after she sped out of the yard in a hail storm of rocks spraying about the corn ears.

Jaws of life crudely forced open to inspect and leave behind like dead produce vegetable soldiers.

Tossed back on the pile.

Causing them to dry out, wither, lose their flavor and value.

Ruining them for others to consider steaming, buttering, salt and peppering to enjoy at their family supper table that evening.

Later while riding my mini bike to my Aunt Ruth's summer horse riding camp after chores were done, I wondered about the contrast in farm stand customers. And how it did not measure up.

The Lincoln owner who seemingly had money was miser like to spend any of it. The Rambler owner who needed bondo for those holes in the sheet metal. To buy a used hubcap or two, tail light lens.

To take care of the oil problem with an engine ring job to not look like a twin to Uncle Buck's ride in the John Candy movie.

But who freely left a little something for me above and beyond in the Maine farm produce stand purchase. It seemed backward, not natural in my early years of dealing with the public picking, selling, marketing farm fresh produce from our Maine potato farm on the County Road in Houlton Maine.

Maine, big state, sometimes what we feel stated simply, forcible, but always with good intent in our hearts. Have your ever thought of retiring, relocation to Maine, the state up here in the right hand corner of the country bordering Canada on two sides?  Learn more about Maine farms for sale.

I'm Maine REALTOR Andrew Mooers, ME Broker