The bright sunshine is filtered through a wide canopy of live oak branches heavy with dark green leaves. Behind me three or four men and one woman are practicing what I think might be lacrosse. In front of me, on the other side of the wide sidewalk that winds beneath the live oaks, a group plays soccer.
Beneath collapsible tents, the farmers -- the vendors of everything from organic mushrooms to goat cheese to sweet corn – stand placidly watching, as do I, their potential customers move up and down the sidewalk, pushing strollers, holding on to leashes, holding on to someone else's hand.
I am not a farmer, nor am I a customer. I am a writer, an author, an invitee to the Forsyth Farmers Market for what they are calling their inaugural book fair. What this means is that I get to sit here for a few hours, in the shade behind a table on which I have spread out copies of the three books I have written and hope that someone who came to buy fresh peas is suddenly stricken with a desire to read.
I haven’t been to Forsyth Park in a long time, over 20 years, as a matter of fact. I attended a wedding here once, had a plastic water bottle thrown at me once by a gang of juveniles, got approached by a street preacher once. I don’t anticipate any of those things happening today.
One of the organizers stops by my tent to chat, to thank me for coming. “What’s been your favorite part so far?”
“The dogs,” I answer after brief thought. I can tell my conversation partner is surprised. “The way some of them look like their owners. And how some of them don’t.” I don’t tell her that I am flummoxed by the fortyish man, at least 6'2", cradling the Pomeranian; that I am mesmerized by the English Greyhound who, along with his owner who could easily be a model, prances nonchalantly through the crowd. I don’t mention that the hairless something-or-other gave me creeps.
She walks on to the next tent and I decide to watch something other than the dogs. As I watch, I take notes. I observe that at least 50% of the people who walk by have tattoos. I conclude that it is now socially acceptable to carry one’s vegetables in a bag labeled with profanity. I realize that the only people responding to my smiles, my attempts at eye contact, my offers of “hello” and “good morning” are the little girls.
There are a lot of them. They are all different colors, all different ages. They wear shorts and t-shirts; they wear cotton dresses with ruffled skirts. Some of them toddle awkwardly, their fat baby fists clinging to the hands of their parents. Some of them lope like gazelles.
The thing that they all have in common is this: In response to my smiles, my attempts at eye contact, my offers of “hello” and “good morning,” every one of them – every single one – waves. Not the parents, not the grandparents, not the brothers. Just the little girls.
People don’t wave much anymore. Grandmas standing on front porches bidding goodbye to their parting families, pageant queens on the backs of convertibles, rural drivers who dangle their hands over the tops of their steering wheels anticipating the approach of a neighbor. Also, little girls.
Things are different now from when I was a little girl. I never heard the phrase “stranger danger.” I did not resist hugs and pats on the head. I walked through life assuming that every adult was good and kind and safe. I understand, though, that the world has changed. That we teeter on the verge of losing touch with ourselves and each other.
Which is why on this summer Saturday in Savannah it doesn’t matter that I had to get up at 6 a.m. to drive 50 miles to sell three books. What matters is that the little girls waved. And that makes me think that there might be hope for the world after all.
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