The sliding door of the silver minivan opened.
A little boy climbed out first.
He couldn’t have been more than eight years old.
He wore a green jacket that was too large for his shoulders and carried a cardboard box with both arms wrapped around it.
Behind him came a young woman holding a sleeping toddler.
Then an older woman emerged from the passenger seat, leaning heavily on a cane.
The boy hurried toward Dad.
“Mr. Mercer!”
Dad turned.
And his entire face lit up.
“Well, if it isn’t my best tomato picker.”
The boy grinned.
“I brought my own box this time!”
Dad bent slightly and inspected it with exaggerated seriousness.
“That’s a fine box, Henry. Strong corners. Good handles. Think it’ll hold ten pounds?”
“Twenty!”
Dad laughed.
“Then we’d better find you twenty pounds of tomatoes.”
The boy ran toward the garden, his sneakers disappearing into the low morning fog.
The young woman followed more slowly.
“Morning, Mr. Mercer.”
“Morning, Sarah. How’s your mother doing?”
The older woman raised her hand.
“Still causing trouble.”
Dad smiled.
“Good. I’d be worried if you stopped.”
I stood beside the county inspector, watching the exchange with growing confusion.
The inspector’s name was Andrew Collins.
He looked from the minivan to the rows of vegetables, then toward the vehicles parked along the road.
More than thirty people were now moving through Dad’s garden.
Some carried buckets.
Others wore gardening gloves.
A few were picking vegetables while several people near the fence sorted produce into boxes.
Nobody seemed to be rushing.
Nobody was arguing over food.
They moved with the familiarity of people who had done this many times before.
