Farmers' Market

As a homeschooler, I tried to get my kids involved with real-life active learning as much as possible. Aside from physics lessons on tension and force experienced corporeally, most activities involved more thinking and less shrieking.



Aslan, aka Poochy, aka Azzy-Doo, aka "You Rug."
Photo by Elisha Courts

 

One such activity connected us to science, economics, math, writing, community, and waking up at an ungodly hour; this was our foray into the farmers market.  The kids were 8 and 11, and decided they wanted to make and sell dog biscuits.  Who was I to say no?  We got a couple books from the library, checked on the internet, and found some recipes we thought would be good sellers.  The boys decided each treat should be connected to one of our three dogs, offering specific characteristics that would appeal to the variety of dog owners out there.  Plus, dogs were allowed at the market, so in choosing between three, we knew we couldn’t go wrong with our most important customers.



Lightning
Photo by Miner



Our border collie, Lightning, was the namesake for the powerhouse “Lightning Strength” lamb and barley biscuit.  Diddiwee Treats, which ended up being our top seller, featured peanut butter and oatmeal.  Poochy Puffs, named for Aslan (his nickname is Poochy) served the more, how shall I put this…density proportion challenged of the canines.  Yes, that was our low-cal option.  If given the chance, Poochy would down 75 at one sitting just to make sure they worked.  My oldest did the artwork for the treat bags, each kind represented by its respective dog, and wrote out the philosophy behind each type of treat from the dog’s perspective.  I have to say, it was a-freakin’-dorable.



Diddle, aka Diddiwee, aka Weenie-D
Love my girl, can't ya tell!
Photo by his royal cuteness, now 11



All the academic areas I wanted to hit were covered, but the social lesson caught us by surprise.  First of all, farmers’ market attendees around here don’t want to be roped into anything.  Forget eye contact.  They want it to be very clear that you do not have them.  The 11 year old learned that being adult sized, yet still a kid, means the perception is you can’t be trusted, unless of course, the buyer is a friend of your mom’s and then you’re golden.  The 8 year old learned all you have to do is say good morning and everyone wants to adopt you.  I learned not selling anything is a drag so quite often I’d nudge the little guy and hiss under my breath, “SPEAK! And make it SWEET!”  Ah, the farmers’ market version of the stage mom was born.

We decided after a few times that the oldest would stay home and stick to the artwork, which he did, and the baking, which he accomplished by asking me to do it.  The younger boy had no option but to show up every Saturday and sweetly utter “good morning” to everyone as they passed, or we'd be sadly in the hole.  We learned the downside to this was the grandfatherly type who wanted to tell the little guy about when he was his age, standing on the back of his cow picking apples off a tree after walking two miles uphill home from school.  The stories were great, don’t get me wrong.  It was the parking in front of our stand blocking money-paying traffic that would fawn at the 8 year old cuteness we had to manage in oh so subtle ways.

Not all were friendly.  One curmudgeon saw our sign for organic dog biscuits and barked, “Organic?  No dog would ever know or care!”  I agreed, and then offered, “But you would as a kind, loving, responsible dog owner.”  He walked off, not even dropping a quarter in our nicely decorated oatmeal container reading “Won’t you please make a donation to provide ORGANIC dog biscuits for shelter animals?”

Our venture ended when the state changed its laws about selling any kind of food.  We had to go get our biscuits analyzed in a lab for nutritional content, and pay for the official stamp and label.  This would run us about $75 per type of biscuit.  At a profit of just around $20/week, shelling out $225 didn’t seem feasible.  An artist friend suggested we charge our normal amount, $2, for the bag and advertise a pack of dog biscuits thrown in for free to get around the new requirements.  I thought it was a brilliant idea, and my son’s artwork had received a lot of compliments, but the boys felt like that was cheating the government which wouldn’t be the right thing to do.  To this day, I still don’t know where I went wrong.

So we stopped selling, and it was kind of nice to sleep in again on Saturday mornings.  The boys split the money they made and bought some things they’d been saving up for after dropping off the biscuits purchased through shelter donations at the SPCA.  Through the whole experience they purchased ingredients, baked, kept a ledger, stuck to their jobs, and learned a few things about sales from both behind the scenes and on the spot.  They still have the first dollar they earned framed and on the piano, and I’d say the whole experience in and of itself was a treat. Who knows?  Maybe they'll find themselves telling some kid about it way in the future when they're old and gray, remembering happy dog days gone by.