Snooty Farmers of Saratoga

Would you rather go to the Saratoga Public Library and hear, “With No Apologies to Oprah, The Truth Hurts” or “The Story behind the Cosmic Muffin: The Truth Hurts?” Apparently, the librarians decided Oprah’s story had more of an appeal than mine. None of them had any interest in The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin, but Dan suggested I try to see about an event at the coffee shop located on the first floor of the library. I didn’t know there was one in the library, which was built way after I left town. I checked into the coffee caffe (that is the way they spell it.) but Kimberly, the manager, was not in. Left a message. Something tells me…

Another attempt at the Saratoga Farmers Market proved futile. Boy are they a bunch of snooty “farmers.” Each time I go, I am directed to another person “in charge” so I think I am making my way through the entire board. This time I was given the story of the lengthy application process, the insurance costs, the limited space, the fees, the requirement to be “farm” relevant, blah, blah, blah…the typical bureaucratic response to any request. There was no consideration of how local authors (not just me) could appeal to their customers or attract other potential buyers. Books cost more than onions and green peppers, but I don’t think anyone coming to the market with $18 in hand and in need of food for their children would make a choice to buy a book instead, thereby denying the “farmer” their livelihood.

I had flash backs of Hawaii and the condominium association run by the very identical anal retentive individuals who live and die by rules and who could never imagine the realms of possibilities much less sail across the ocean or run across the street without an umbrella on a rainy day. With Nazi-like zeal they adhere and enforce these rules, and protect them as if they were heirlooms. It is too risky and definitely not a notion that occurs to them as a possible feat because they are mentally confined within their rules. But maybe I am wrong. Maybe they are just plain snooty farmers who are all down at the library tonight listening to the “With No Apologies to Oprah…” presentation. You know, their blueberries were not any bigger or better than the ones in Whitehall and Whitehall was half the price. So if you are shopping…

With two local strike outs, I attacked my Northeast Bookshop list and called twenty-three stores. Making these phone calls was not as hard as I expected. Once I started I got on a roll; I kept plowing through my call list. I had only one flat out rejection. I left a lot of messages, several had not read the book yet, some were on vacation, and others asked me to call back next week or in two weeks. But I got another yes—at The Bookend in Gloucester, Massachusetts August 3rd from noon until 2 PM. Plus she is ordering ten books. Holy Cow! The day is the first day of the town’s Sidewalk Bizarre, so could have some potential.

In a bit of celebration for landing another signing and in a bit of consolation for another rejection from the Saratoga Farmers Market and the Public Library, I went to Stewart’s Ice Cream Shoppe on south Broadway and got a Death By Chocolate ice cream cone. I sat in the park enjoying the cooler temperatures and watching the ducks waddle around the pond. There was a momma duck taking her young ducklings for a foraging. Seven furry bodies seemed to aimlessly wander around her until she decided to cross the road. Somehow she communicated to her babies that it was time to get in line and follow her across the road. Although some lagged behind her and other wandered ahead of her, she got their attention, they lined up faster than soldiers in boot camp, and she marched them across the park’s road as squarely as any drill sergeant. It was about that time I tried to pop the last bit of cone and ice cream in my mouth and dropped a blob on my white shirt. Time to go home.

The RV should be ready to pick up from the shop tomorrow.