With the cool nights, the morning fog, and the hint of fall in the air, things at the tailgate market this week are moving at a slower pace. Even Johnny White’s chickens are laying fewer eggs. Most grower’s gardens have peaked for the season. There are no more truckloads of corn, bushels of tomatoes, or trunks full of cornfield beans. No more of Neil Dawson’s Webster-grown watermelons.

Instead, Saturday morning at the Sylva market is dominated by those who have grown winter squash, root crops and innovative canners and distillers of sweet liquids and salves. David Starr’s garlic is back, and home-made jellies, jams, marmalades and sweet pickles are on display under the awning at Molly Shaw’s “incredible edibles” spot on “tailgate row.”

Cathy Calabrese has her table full of fragrant flower essences, healing tinctures and salves. Further down the line, and the center of attraction today, the honey tent. Jim Parham and Mary Ellen Hammond have brought in their new crop of sourwood honey and their scented beeswax candles and their station is like a regular bee gum — with “the Honey Queen” little Shirley Temple-like Autumn Demonet in her blonde curls buzzing around the tent, carrying the “Local Honey For Sale” sign, attracting customers to the hive.

“How sweet it is!” Autumn says to one of the passers by, chanting the words from the black and gold sign she carries like a sign board. Too young to be “pourin’ short sweetenin’ into long” [wearing lipstick], Autumn dances up and down the sidewalk like the wind, a herald of the coming season which bears her name.

While the “bee” tent is buzzing with business, and with “the boys of summer” about to become the “men of fall,” those of us with little to sell are relaxing, talking about baseball to pass the time.

“What about them Cubs!” says one of the vendors parked on my left and sitting on the side of his tailgate, holding up a copy of USA Today open to the sports page. “This might just be their year. That is, if they can get past Seattle.”

I nod enthusiastically, being an inveterate romantic and a lifetime Cubs fan myself.

“And how about ole Sammy Sosa!” my neighbor goes on. “He’s doin it again. But I don’t know if he’ll ever catch that Barry Bonds fella. He seems awful strong.”

I nod again, finally asking him what has happened to Mark McGuire.

“I don’t think McGuire will ever catch Hank Aaron. He’s got too many injuries, and that’s going to slow him down,” he replies, almost apologetically.

Meanwhile, Eulus McMahan has made his weekly appearance and has joined the men’s group around the tailgate of my truck and joins into the conversation — adding some of his regional color and flair.
“I never played no baseball, but when I was a young’un we used to play a game we called ‘anty-over.’ H’it was played with two people (or sometimes more), one on each side of the house. And we’d throw the ball over-top of the roof and the one (or two) on the other side would have to catch it — and them not knowin’ where the ball would come from. After a while, Mama would get tired of hearing that ball bangin’ up there on the roof and come out and chase us off. And we’d go off for a while, and then come back later and play it some more, until she chased us off again.

“I’ve got this big ole yard,” Eulus continues. “Hit’s one of the biggest yards up where I live. It takes me nearly two days to mow it. Last summer this ole boy comes up to the house one day, knocks on my door and asks me if’n he could play golf in my yard. I was a tad surprised, but I told him he could play his golf on my yard as long as he didn’t knock the windows out of the house! And sure enough, a couple days later, there he was, out there in the grass playin’ golf. Beats anything I’ve ever seen. I’m thinkin’ now that maybe I ought to set me up a golf course in the yard. Stick some flags around, and a few sand boxes. That ole boy seemed to think it worked all right!”

We all laugh at Eulus’ tale, as he leaves in a “swivvit”  his last words trailing off into the late morning as he moves on down the line of trucks and booths on Mill Street.

While the men have been musing about baseball, up the “row” in the honey tent, there’s a “hellaballoo” goin’ on as the women are exchanging recipes. With the ever-bare strawberries putting on their last blooms, Strawberry Honey is all the rage.

Strawberrry Honey
One pint of strained honey
One quart of wild strawberries
Heat honey in sauce pan over slow fire, add berries, and stir until the two are melded together. Pour into jars.

One of the elder women in the group has just purchased a quart of the Nantahala couple’s sourwood honey, saying “It won’t be long before it will be time to make ‘fruit’ [applesauce], or ‘sass’ as my Mama use to call it. We’re already pickin’ early apples from our old tree. And they sure are sweet this year, especially for a tart apple. It sure has been a good year for sweetenin’!” she ends, with everyone saying yes and shaking their heads in affirmation.

With the chill still in the air by noon as a hint of things to come, and as the last of the vendors pack up to go home, it’s been a slow, sweet day at the Sylva tailgate market - where the conversation and the tales are as puzzling as they are endless, and as interesting as the food is good.

(Thomas Crowe lives in Jackson County.)

 

Back to Top
The Smoky Mountain News