the produce auction

The clash of alien cultures visits even rural middle Tennessee. I attended the Amish produce auction yesterday. Held in a large open pavilion in the fields it draws both a large portion of the Amish community and local bargain hunting residents. Pecks and pecks of pickling cucumbers, yellow squash in bushel baskets, the last of the seasons strawberries, bounty available to the highest bidder. Dozens of buggies and identical brown horses were tied at the hitching posts. They battled for space with the minivans and dodge pickup trucks. The black dresses of the women and patched suits of the men were likewise identical. So much alike that it forced you to look at their faces, see the eyes behind the beards, notice a smile, judge the quality of the person by the expression rather than the cut of clothing. Standing next to a clump of short, solid, black swaddled matrons and young girls I was suddenly overcome with embarrassment and the sensation of my t-shirt clinging much more tightly than it had when I left the house. My pale thigh peeked through my torn jeans and I felt too tall, too loud, far too conspicuous. And with a breath of manure scented breeze I sensed the parallel track my life could have run on, something loamier, quieter, more rooted. I could have slept every night the good sleep of physical weariness. Instead I balanced my bushel of pole beans on my hip and walked back toward the road.