You know how sometimes, if you aren’t trying, you can have a nearly perfect day? This past Saturday in Front Royal came pretty close to perfect, which surprises me even as I write this on a Monday morning at 6 am surrounded by high-rise office buildings in Rosslyn.
That morning, my daughter Maggie and I rose early, around 7:30 am, leaving Daddy to sleep in since he’s a notorious night owl. After Maggie scarfed down her egg, ham, and cheese sandwich left over from our visit to The Daily Grind two nights before and I finished a bowl of the obligatory shredded wheat cereal, we went for a power walk around town.
I call it a power walk, but with a 6 year-old in tow, it was more like a stroll. Every few feet Maggie saw something on the ground she wanted to look at. Eventually, we made our way down to Main Street and past the empty storefront being used to display local artwork. The sun shone brightly on the massive baskets of pink and purple petunias hanging from the light poles near the visitor’s center. The slightly humid air had warmed up quickly.
We marched past the secondhand store run by the women’s shelter, the bank/arts council, the coffee shop, the fabric store, the computer shop, the Catholic store, the Lucky Star Lounge, the furniture store, and the movie theatre, before Maggie whined that the snazzy black boots I told her not to wear were hurting her feet. I suggested that we cut our walk short and head over the new farmer’s market behind the gazebo—so much for Mommy’s kick-ass workout.
Front Royal had been lacking a farmer’s market for years, which was odd because there are lots of farms in and around town. Ironically, an old neighbor of ours from Alexandria now runs a farmer’s market in Strasburg. But Strasburg is twenty minutes away—too far for a quick trip to pick up veggies.
Lots of folks here were thrilled to hear that a local market would be starting up, selling produce and other goods on Thursday nights and Saturday mornings. Jose and I had wanted to check it out for weeks but were just too busy. Finally, last Thursday, we made it over.
Under one of about 12 small white tents, we chatted with the market’s manager and his wife who we’d met some months before when the wife ran up to me at the grocery store and introduced herself. She’d seen Jose and I read poems at The Daily Grind. Like us, they’d moved to Warren County from the northern VA suburbs.
That night at the market, Maggie played with one her classmates between the tents while we bought some Swiss chard, tomatoes, zucchini, and squash. I vowed to actually cook the stuff, not just feel virtuous about buying it, which is usually as far as I get in my quest to be an organic, locavore mommy.
As Maggie and I entered the farmer’s market again on Saturday morning, she headed straight for the sno-cone table. She had discovered on our earlier trip that the blueberry sno-cones, made with real fruit syrup, were strangely more tasty than the variety enhanced by blue dye #2.
Just as on Thursday night, a man and woman sitting off to the side played guitar and sang some folksy farmer’s market shopping music. About five minutes after Maggie started in on her sno-cone, a lady selling herbs and homemade scones scurried over with a paper towel to mop up the sticky mess decorating her face and shirt. I thanked her profusely.
The whole scene had that easy Saturday morning kind of feeling, as if no one there could possibly have a care in the world (except maybe for the frowning, bleary-eyed woman smoking a cigarette by the visitor’s center).
In the end, I bought three peach muffins from a woman who grinds her own flour and then window-shopped the offerings at the other tents—scented oils and bath salts, candles, soaps, honey, fruits and vegetables, meats, organic pizzas, and hand-embroidered towels and aprons. Those aprons were the only product that scared me a little since many of them depicted curly crosses and avenging angels.
The rest of our day flew by. After Maggie and I got home, I threw her in the tub for a quick bath, then we hung out at a birthday party in the wilderness near Skyline Drive, read some poems to teens at the library, ran to the Hair Cuttery to get Maggie’s hair chopped into a sassy bob/shag kind of thing (which she requested out of the blue), ate dinner at home (including the recently purchased Swiss chard), and finally headed off to a movie—I couldn’t wait to sit down and relax, though Jose feared he might fall asleep.
Despite the fact that we can walk to the theater, we drove down and parked half a block from Front Royal’s only movie house, the Royal Cinemas. Built in 1920, it shows three first-run movies at a time in one large and two small screening rooms. Sometimes we catch a film mid-week when almost no one else is there—it’s like having your own home theater.
I was eager to see this particular film since I had just finished reading the book (Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince). Maggie was excited too since she had seen all of the previous Harry Potter movies. Halfway through though, exhausted from our long day, she asked to go home. I held her on my lap as the sad story reached its peak and wound down. I tried not to ball my eyes out at the ending—I’m a sucker for young adult fantasy. I was tired also and looking forward to a soft, if unmade, bed and a sound eight-hour sleep.
Main Street felt almost city-like as we stepped out onto the sidewalk in the bright lights of the marquee. We walked to our car past the Lucky Star Lounge where local bands play just about every night of the week. We used to take Maggie there with us for a late night snack once in a while but kids are no longer allowed in after 9 PM—this is annoying but we’ll just have to get a babysitter next time—it’s about the only night life Front Royal has to offer.
We clambered into the van and drove home around the block, Maggie falling asleep in her seat. The day had been busy but good. As we dragged Maggie into the house and up to bed, I wondered if she would dream of Harry Potter, of his dark blue eyes and bookish glasses. Maybe she’d spend the night sharing an organic blueberry sno-cone with him at a quiet little farmer’s market just down the block.