Sue R, Sue B, and Sue T all work the register at the farmstand. Sue R smells like drier sheets, wears sweatshirts with Thomas Kincade-esque aesthetic, and once took a week off from work because her beloved cat Tiggles died. She’s a patron saint of cats, and we’ve had many conversations about them, especially since I adopted a feral barncat I call Carl Marx; “How about the name Zoey, instead?” she asked.
Sue B looks out of place on the farm, like a professional salsa dancer with radiant skin, sleek black kept hair, lipstick red blouses, high heels, and stretchy black leggings. She grew up Massachusetts, in one of those sleepy New England neighborhoods, where people look forward to eating at the Dunkin Doughnuts.
Sue T is a retired third grade teacher, and we work a farmer’s market together on Thursdays. She’s a beautiful soul; selfless, warm, and stalwart, and at the same time, foul mouthed, a gossip, and I have no doubt, would win in a knife fight.
On the car ride to the market she graciously listens to me talk about Crazy Willy, the kook who lives in the old coral gray farmhouse, who I fell in love with, in a greenhouse of tomato plants, when he played for me recordings of farts him and a group of guy friends sent to each other over a group text.