Small is beautiful

I am off work today, which means I get to spend some time blogging again. I was working over the weekend at homeschool convention in the DC area, so this is my comp time. The convention went well. It had a warm atmosphere and we met a lot of people and even made some money, but the highlight was my drive home. I drove alone, my two co-workers rode together in the other car. Before leaving they decided to stop at Burger King, but I was ready for some quiet time to myself after all of the noise and bustle, so I left them in the drive-through and hit the road, my Mapquest directions lying on the passenger seat to be followed backwards.
Rt 15 is the main road on the trip, and it is a beautiful road. John and I were recently talking about how fun it would be to do a vacation road trip across the country and see America up close. Rt. 15 is a great place to start. You cross the Mason-Dixon line and several Civil War battlefields. You pass orchards and farm fields with rolled up hay bales. In Virginia you see large plantation houses built of red brick with round windows like Monticello. So part of me was ready to get home, but as I drove I also began to think that I should just take my time. No need to hurry. I thought about looking for an exit and parking along a field and just walking, but I just kept driving along. Until...
Just before reaching Gettysburg, I saw a small hand-painted sign along the higway. Black writing on a white sign. "Local Honey". And another one right beside it, "Sweet Peaches." There had been many little farmer's markets along the way, most of them closed because it was saturday night. But I was intrigued with the honey sign. I bought honey from a little table with a jar to put your money in, in front of a house here in Hershey last summer and it was delicious. But I never seen any since then. I considered stopping, but the sign gave no directions. My marketing brain scoffed a bit. Little did I know...
About half a mile further was another sign, the same writing, the same black paint. "Small is Beautiful" it said. My mind repeated the phrase over and over. Small is Beautiful. Small is beautiful. Another two signs in another half mile. "Small farmers love their work" and "Hand made pottery" Another half mile. "Juicy Plums", and "Come Meet the Potters".

So I did.

I followed the signs off of the exit and into a gravel driveway lined with shelves and shelves of green and blue mugs, bowls, and plates. The little table of honey sat right in from of me. Right behind that table was a backyard and the residents of the house grilling their dinner with friends. A little boy, probably five years old, with a perfect ringlet of hair hanging from his dark pony tail greeted me happily, and told me that they were going to eat supper. I looked around and picked out my jar of honey. The boys father came over welcomed me. He is a black man with a wild mane of white hair springing in all directions from his head, but his eyes are kind and his words open. He says his wife is Japanese and could I tell by looking at his son. I mumble something about that I didn't really notice, and he answers by placing a plum in my hand. "For you" He says. He asks me where I am from. I tell him about the convention and he says he would like to homeschool his children. I tell him about classical education and that our program teaches Latin to elementary students.
"Latin" he says, "That's very interesting... Are you a Christian?"
"Yes, I am"
"Praise the Lord"
I smile. I pay for my honey and a cantalope, and he tells me about an intern he has this summer, who he is training in pottery. She is a pastor's daughter and an art major, but cannot draw, he tells me. She worried too much about what people thought of her, so he told her to stop shaving her legs and to learn about herself. How can you know who you are if you don't even know what you smell like? He said she has opened up like a flower and is drawing like a third year art student and singing out loud by herself with her guitar. I listen and nod, like I am not the clean, white, often inhibited woman that I am. I think he notices this, and when his wife comes out and says that supper is ready, he says goodbye and turns toward the house with no further thought of me. I feel somehow dismissed. I want to say, "But I was an art student, and I was homeschooled, and I had the guts to actually pull off the highway and meet you!" But I get into my car and back out onto the road. As I head back to the highway I take a bite of the plum and juice pours into my mouth and down my arm and onto my pantlegs. My tastebuds reel at the strength of the flavor, and I marvel at each bite. The pit of the plum I toss out the window just as I pull onto the enrance ramp, feeling that it is more fitting that it stay there, near it's home. The stickiness of my hands on the steering wheel reminds me of the stop all the way home.

Here is the link to their website. It appears to be under construction, but even so, next time you drive through Gettysburg, try to stop and look them up. It will be worth it.
The Lion Potter