Happy birthday, Healdsburg Farmers’ Market. Though 40 years old today, it required a year or two of planning and work from a set of folks, some of whom are still selling produce.
See Bernier Farm at the Healdsburg markets and Wayne and Lee James at their vegetable stand on Airport Boulevard. They were there. Also, more names in the group that thought a direct produce market would be a good idea: Grainger Brown, Karen Tovani, Doug Stout and our first market manager, Tom Peterson.
It would take a small book to retell their story so I will confine the beginning of our market to a few highlights. The first is Tom, who finished a stint in the Peace Corps in Sierra Leone and found himself trying to make a living in our little town, farming a few acres loaned to him along the Russian River.
“I thought if I planted 250 cherry tomato plants I could sell them and provide myself with a small income,” he said.
The problem was marketing them. Tom fantasized that customers would see his rows of plants, pull over, buy some tomatoes and return again and again.
When this didn’t happen, which was one of those blessings in disguise, he realized he needed a marketing place. Finding like-minded, the above named, they began to put energy into obtaining suitable ground, preferably flat and not miles away, which could be the first home of the market.
Naturally, they thought of the Healdsburg Plaza. And, from the get-go, that idea was fought by the powers of business and politics who failed to see a group of poorly equipped, plainly dressed (often in dusty jeans and shoes) farmers/hippies taking up public space twice a week, Tuesdays from 4-6 and Saturdays from 9-12. (Yes, they began the endless task of establishing a weekday afternoon market for the working people downtown.)
Instead, an abandoned prune drying plant at the corner of Haydon and East streets, where a right angled curve in the road still exists, became the home of the market. Looking back on those years it was an ideal place to have a market. It had a ceiling, supported by strong beams, allowing a totally open area for tables, umbrellas, and, hopefully, customers.
I would guess there were 100 folks that supported the market in those early days and they remained faithful throughout their lives. Bess Cunningham comes to mind — she never missed a market and never missed winning the Best Pumpkin Pie competition until she died. (And the pumpkin ingredient always came out of a can of Libby’s, for goodness sakes!)
Manager Tom actually lived at the market in the prune drying plant’s small office during those early years. He decided to cordon off the customers until 9 o’clock because the vendors were unable to set up while customers wandered around purchasing produce as soon as the farmers arrived.
He very politely affixed a nice rope, think theater rope keeping everyone in line, and wouldn’t take it down until 9. This is why we Healdsburg farmers still have a 9 o’clock rule for “Not selling until the bell.”
Ah, the bell.
“Why do you have a bell? It’s ridiculous!”
Here’s the timeline on that bell. Once we left Haydon Street, we moved to a small space on the lane where Shelton’s Market is today. It was behind the bank on the corner of Piper and Center on that lane. We lasted a year. There was no rope but customers still waited until the manager announced, “Market’s opened!”
Then, more moves ensued — to the vacant block which had been torn down where the Swenson Building and Hotel Healdsburg are today — and finally to the parking lot where it’s been for at least 30 years.
In those years a vendor named Margaret Brown would yell at the top of her voice, “Market’s opened!” (We other vendors would comment that Margaret would only open the market when she was ready.)
When I became the market manager in 1990, the first to have a salary (the others merely had their stall fee waived) I suggested, strongly, that I buy a real bell that didn’t yell. I found a Swiss bell at Wright Feed and it still starts the markets as I write.
By the way, at the market birthday, a scrapbook will be on display and you can see photos of the Haydon Street market and even spy Bess Cunningham, with that wry smile, her can opener hiding in her purse.
Renee Kiff weeds and writes at her family farm in Alexander Valley.
