Farmer Al has greens and a harvest of knowledge
Before Al Stoddart even finished setting up his tent at the Central Square Farmers' Market on a recent Monday, there was a crowd around him, two and three-deep, of regulars. Cash in hand, they were waiting to buy a bunch of his famous greens.
"Hello, Smiley," Stoddart said to each one. Most customers he recognized; some he knew by name. But everyone knew him, simply, as Farmer Al.
"I've been working since 5 o'clock this morning," he told them in his lilting Jamaican accent. "When you smile to me, it takes the pressure off. When you don't, it kills me."
So he got smiles from the 20 or so early-comers: mothers with children, recent college grads, and retirees, many of them, like Stoddart, of Caribbean descent. His farm stand, which has been in Central Square, as well as Davis Square in Somerville, every summer since the late 1970s, is known as the source in Boston for fresh callaloo, a spinach-like green from Jamaica. And although customers largely come for the greens, they often linger for Stoddart's conversation.
A former student of English literature, and later a teacher, he infuses an exchange of pleasantries with a quote from Shakespeare, a bit of Scripture, or an observation about the state of the world.
"People are going to be eating other people soon," Stoddart warned one man. "After they eat all the animals and all the crops are gone. I advise everyone in the city to get a little plot of land and plant a potato. Things are going to get much worse."
But if he's too busy to chat, he'll refer customers to "Seeds of Wisdom," his self-published book, which he also sells at the market. It features a photo of the diminutive and now graying Stoddart in his younger days, as well as 76 pages of inspirational, reflective, and occasionally baffling quotes: "If your head hurts, it is because you have one," or "You can't wear high heels when you go skiing," and "Vitamin D: See Mr. Sun!"
When one young woman agreed to buy one, he signed her copy, "Dear Rebecca, you've made a very wise choice."
Today, farmers' markets around Boston are a well-oiled, vibrant scene where thousands of visitors can find everything from soaps to cuts of meat, bread, produce, and seedlings. Dozens of vendors participate, often with lush displays that could rival a produce section at Whole Foods.
But 30 years ago, when Stoddart first made the trip down Route 2 from his South Lancaster farm, it was just to a corner in Cambridge that drew customers by word of mouth.
Back then, Stoddart was among the few farmers coming to the city to sell fruits and vegetables, and he now claims to be one of the oldest vendors at the city's markets, tied only with Stephen Violette from Dick's Market Garden in Lunenburg.
While Stoddart has seen the market expand and the customers change, market-goers over the years have come to rely on him. He hasn't gussied up his display, like other farmers have, or brought in workers to help with sales. It's still Stoddart, alone, with a couple of rickety tables set up in front of his van. He's got his goods in weathered plastic bins, and a price chart in cursive letters handwritten on a manila folder taped to the rear windshield of his van.
"Everyone wants to come see Farmer Al. To give him grief, see what he's doing, or what he thinks," Stoddart said.
Stoddart's relationship with customers is emblematic of what makes farmers' markets unique, says Jeff Cole, executive director of the Federation of Massachusetts Farmers' Markets, which manages six markets around Boston. The face-to-face interaction is part of what keeps people coming back.
"That's the principle ingredient," he said. "The direct communication with a farmer. . . . You can't get that anywhere else."
Two hours into a recent market, Stoddart was nearly out of his callaloo. Anticipating a lull in customers, he started an aggressive sales pitch to unload lettuce, beet greens, and tomatoes, by inviting passersby to "exercise their democracy" by choosing a vegetable to take home. Then a familiar face appeared: a well-dressed woman, carrying a crinkled envelope with writing on it. The penmanship matched Stoddart's price chart. She handed it to Stoddart.
"What is the date on this?" asked the woman, Gloria Burnett, of Cambridge.
"Oct. 30, 2006," he read aloud, then examined the document. It was an IOU from two years ago, when Burnett bought pumpkins from Stoddart but didn't have enough cash with her to pay. She moved recently, and found it buried in a pile of old mail.
"I've got your $3," she told Stoddart, who said that with interest, she now owed him $12. She laughed, and asked him to put two heads of lettuce, a bunch of callaloo and a few tomatoes in her bag. 