To market, to market …

Every so often my mind takes nostalgic trips to my past, and I recently revisited memories of my grandparents who had a stand at the St. Lawrence Market in Toronto for many years. When I was young, The Market was a mysterious, far-away place where truckloads of produce, loaded up the evening before, magically disappeared each Saturday.

When I was seven or eight, granny said I was old enough to join them as a special treat from time to time. In those days, the north market was a vast building with soaring ceilings and drafts everywhere. In cooler weather, Granny kept a little kerosene stove behind their stand for warmth, and I’m happy to now have that little heater.

When I was ten, my Granny got sick. She was unwell all winter and that meant that when my sister Linda and I got home from school, we’d be asked to help Grandad grade eggs, one of Granny’s jobs. Our egg grader was like the one pictured below, and you can tap on the link to see how it worked. Grandad took eggs from the collection baskets and placed them into the trough on the left. It was our job to put the eggs into cardboard trays once they had been weighed and graded, and, when full of a dozen eggs, they were placed into wooden carrying cases. 

Granny was too sick to go to the market so my cousin Paul and I went in her place to help Grandad. Then, in the spring, when I was ten-and-a-half, she died and I was devastated.

That same year, 1968, the old north market was demolished and vendors set up stands in a parking lot beside the construction site. It looked much like the outdoor farmers’ markets that we’re used to these days, and customers strolled the rows of makeshift stalls in the open air.

One summer Saturday morning we opened the back of the truck and saw two bright eyes and a furry little face peering out from between the vegetables. My curious calico kitty, Kiss-Cat, had been accidentally locked into the back of the truck during loading the evening before. I was petrified that Kiss-Cat get away and get lost in the bustling city, but Grandad made a harness out of hemp twine and we fastened it to the truck’s side mirror so she couldn’t escape.

Fridays in the spring and summer are among my best childhood memories. Memorable now, but not so enjoyable then, were long afternoons spent “peeling onions”; removing the dirty outer skins of two wheelbarrow-loads of slim green onions. We kids peeled, and then Mom bunched them, slipping on thin rubber bands before putting them into pails of water to keep fresh.

Mom often picked wild violets, and tied them into tiny bunches. The market customers loved them, as well as the bouquets of pansies we sent. We girls had a long row of very prolific pansies that became quite a chore to pick and bunch every week, but the money from those was ours to keep, apparently helping us learn the lesson of work and reward.

Also in the spring, we’d go with Dad or Grandad to our bush lot, a mile down the road, to dig marsh marigolds/cowslips which were put into newspaper-lined wooden flats. We also picked fiddleheads.

When the large grove of lilac trees at the back of our yard was in bloom, Dad would go out after Friday night suppers to cut large branches of those beautiful flowers. Tall metal buckets filled with water stood nearby, and we girls picked up the branches as they fell, and tucked them into the buckets. Their moist fragrance filled the evening air, creating one of my most cherished scent memories.

Friday evenings also meant a steady stream of family and friends arriving with things that Granddad would sell for them. I mostly remember the wonderful scent of lily-of-the-valley bouquets, brought by my aunts, and the poor bunnies raised by a neighbour boy. They arrived dressed and ready for sale, and I stroked their soft fur while mourning their early demise.

During the summer we girls had to pick strawberries and raspberries. We didn’t like bending or squatting to pick the strawberries, but at least they were big and the quart boxes filled quickly. Picking raspberries, though, was a thankless and endless job in the heat. A long piece of twine was threaded through a square, wooden quart box and tied around the waist. Several other boxes were stacked into the bottom one, and berry-picking began. Quarts of raspberries took much longer to pick, and when the top box was finally filled, we set it in the shade of the row and began picking into the next one. On and on it went until the long row was finally picked on both sides and we were finished.

There were also peas, beans, cucumbers, tomatoes, radishes, beets, carrots, and other fruits and vegetables in season. I was excused from picking sweet corn though.  I was so allergic to the corn pollen, that being in the field set me to wheezing and my eyes watered and swelled half shut. I was so miserable that I would have rather picked corn!

We also sold chickens that were caught and plucked the day before. Plucking chickens was my least-favourite job, but at least we only had to take off the feathers. They were sold New York dressed, with little paper bags covering their poor heads, and the customers got to finish preparing their poultry.

In the fall, apples were picked from the orchard, stored in large wooden boxes in our walk-in cooler, and sold throughout the winter. Then the windfalls were picked up from the ground and put into burlap sacks. Granddad took these to a small factory in Wellesly where they were made into apple butter. At the market we spooned the thick, brown apple butter from a big stoneware crock into cardboard containers, just like the iconic Chinese food takeaway boxes. Unbelievably, when a customer wanted a taste before buying, we held out the wooden spoon and they sampled by dipping in the tip of a finger.

Autumn always meant piles of pumpkins and many kinds of squash.

It was with this bounty that we set out with each Saturday morning, eyes bleary after being awakened at 4 a.m. But it was a magical time too as we drove the nearly-deserted Highway 401, from where we entered it at Morningside, and then south on the Don Valley Parkway to Toronto.

It always felt important to drive the truck into the now rebuilt market building and right up to our stand so we could unload. When that was done, the man at the stand next to ours kept an eye on things while we went to a nearby restaurant. Granddad sold a case of eggs to the owner and we had a quick breakfast together — always a bacon sandwich and hot chocolate for me.

All morning we were busy selling to our regular customers and many new ones, and the stand gradually emptied. By lunchtime we girls were ready to go with our good friend and fellow vendor, Noreen, to a different little restaurant for lunch. When we returned it was Grandad’s turn to have a break and we felt very important when manning the stand alone.

We were always glad when when the tiring day was over. On the way home Granddad always detoured off the Don Valley at Lawrence so we could get a Dairy Queen cone. In those days you could choose from chocolate, butterscotch, or cherry dip, and I always had cherry.

I don’t remember ever really wanting to go to work at the market. It was hard work for a kid, but think I ever slept better than after those long days at the St. Lawrence market.

This story  has turned out to be a wonderful trip down memory lane for me, and I hope you’ve enjoyed coming along.