Falling slowly into Culpeper’s culture

By Catherine Amos

Published: August 23, 2008

It is difficult for me to believe that it has been eight months since I packed up my nonexistent postgraduate life and moved to Virginia’s rural Piedmont.

And in those eight months, I have let myself fall into the culture of Culpeper. It takes time, especially in a place like this, so tight-knit and full of natives. But most natives — if we let them — can embrace newcomers wholeheartedly.

Last weekend I stopped by the farmer’s market — a haven for Culpeper’s locals — and Tom Henneman, the market’s manager, invited me to sit with him at his lettuce tent. I had nowhere else to be, so I sank into one of his folding camping chairs and watched faces, some familiar and some not, browse the canopied vendors.

Inside the farmer’s market, tart berries beckoned, ears of corn called out and the sweet scent of goat’s milk soap drifted across the pavement. A soulful songster strummed the blues on his worn guitar, singing about being someone’s salty dog.

I chatted with Tom and he pointed out a woman painting a man’s portrait. I’d heard she was quite a character and curiosity drew me to her side. Paint smudges covered her face and red apron as the woman captivated me with tales of living in New York City. She gripped a small glass vodka bottle of her late husband’s — the only thing of his she still has — where she kept her turpentine.

The woman finished the man’s portrait and gave it to him, then resumed work on a lovely likeness of The Depot across the street. Her daughter, a tall, striking redhead, passed and I yearned to talk with her as well but feared being intrusive.

When I returned to the lettuce tent — hydroponic bibb lettuce, that is — Tom had just sold another head and told me it was my turn next. He showed me how to wrap the roots around the base and gently fit the leafy ball inside one of the flimsy plastic containers. When the next customer arrived, he pointed at her and gave me a nod.

I was no longer simply a customer at the farmer’s market; I had sold my first head of lettuce and fell a little more into the woven quilt of Culpeper. Granted, I played no role in actually growing that lettuce, but it still felt cool.

A few sales later, Tom left the tent in my hands. Sure, exchanging a head of lettuce for $2.50 was simple enough, but not when the customers started asking me about the product.

“Where do you grow your lettuce?” one lady asked.

“Is this organic?” another questioned.

“Uh… Tom?” was my only response as I looked frantically around the parking lot for his face.

When he returned, I made sure to get the facts straight before he left again. But this time, he let me take a break and pulled a few bucks from his cashbox to buy me breakfast. I resisted — he uses the money to support a child in Haiti; how could I take a few dollars? But he insisted and practically pushed me toward Miki Chilton’s Radishes & Roses table, ordering me to buy one of her ham biscuits.

Oh. My. Goodness. That crumbly biscuit, filled with salty Virginia ham, Granny Smith apple and creamy Brie, was heavenly. Especially when paired with an iced chai latte from The Raven’s Nest around the corner.

I spent the rest of the morning with Tom, his lettuce and his market friends as the black plastic trays grew emptier by the minute. I didn’t think it would happen, but by quarter to noon the lettuce was gone. I was now a seasoned produce seller.

With each passing month I fall a little more in love with this town, settling comfortably into its crevices as I carve myself a place of my own.

Catherine Amos might just have to start growing her own produce. She can be reached at 825-0771 ext. 138 or .