Elizabeth Harris
Today
is the opening day of the 2013 season for Riverdale Farmers Market in Toronto . I find myself at
home on the farm. A gentle rain is falling on the lush spring greenery all
around. Feeling slightly guilty not to be at market as the rain falls in
Toronto, I find myself remembering fondly Elizabeth Harris, the founding market
manager, on this her breakout day of the year. It is not possible to imagine
not being at market were she still with us, marshalling her farmers and
cajoling.
Honouring
Elizabeth , here
is an excerpt from my newly-published book, High Up in the Rolling Hills:
It was the
irrepressible Elizabeth Harris who had given me my big break as a certified
organic grower all those years ago. Then as vice-president of Quinte Organic
Farmers Co-operative, I approached Elizabeth to
apply for the co-op to be a vendor at her flagship organic farmers market at
Riverdale Farm in Cabbagetown, Toronto .
She sized up what we offered, 12 small certified-organic family farms pooling
their produce to market direct to the customer, and she voiced her doubts. She
was used to allowing only single farms to join her family of vendors. But she
sized me up too and found something she liked or trusted, so she said, “Okay,
but only as long as you bring all the farmers in to sell at your stand through
the season.” “Sure,” I promised having gotten a foot in the door. It wasn’t to
be, of course; only one or two farmers bothered to come in at all, but the
first season was a roaring success for the co-op as a fledgling sales
organization. I made sure we stayed on Elizabeth ’s
good side—as one had to—and, over several years, Elizabeth and I developed a
wonderful mutual respect. I was awed by her tight control of the market, her
fairness, her discipline with slack vendors, her amazing vision in holding it
all together and bringing people together.
“Peter, I’d like you to meet
Jamie Kennedy.”
“Peter, can any of your
farmers supply three bushels of romano beans for a dinner for seventy-five this
Friday?”
She would often call up and
tell me about the latest new vendors that she was excited to have visited. She
had such respect for farmers and for food produced honestly and in a fresh way.
And she would ask my opinion and advice. Early on at market, I incurred her
wrath. She had strong rules and enforced them. Vendors were not allowed to sell
before the bell rang, right at 3:00 p.m. As I tried to sneak in a sale for a
customer who was running off to work, a booming voice bellowed out from the
other side of the park: “Mr. Finch, the market opens at three o’clock, and not
before!” Last year, held up in traffic and running late in setting up, I upheld
her rule when an impending storm told her to ring the bell early. “No, Elizabeth , that’s not
fair; I’m not ready,” I pleaded. She agreed to wait, and for weeks after, she
deferred to me to see if I was ready before ringing the bell. A softening,
maybe? I feel deep down that she truly respected her senior farmers, and I was
lucky enough to have been in that number.