the book market: a mid-winter hunt

(The following was an assignment written for university, with the intent to convey nostalgia in the reader. No offence is meant for any involved within the story, regardless of words used I did enjoy myself immensely.)

Weekends, when I was younger, were early morning affairs.  There were Saturday morning cartoons, and the occasional pancake before heading off in the car with a book to devour and a different end location than home. I never took much notice of the world around me, much to the dismay of my mother as my head was constantly in a book or, as I got older distracted and listening through headphones to The Adventure Zone podcast by the McElroy’s. 

Markets were always a different place, new and exciting with so many things to purchase. At school markets, there was always a group of us kids running around, whilst our parents would try their very vest to corral us into behaving ourselves.  

It didn’t work. 

Night markets always ended with children acting like wolves, howling at the moon standing atop the playground with strangers and family members alike shaking their heads at the general weirdness of children gone wild. As an adult there is still the public expectancy to behave yourself of course, but with heightened responsibility of having to purchase your own goods rather than using the money that your parents have given you specifically to buy yourself a chocolate stuffed pretzel. Being an adult is harder than what television and movies portray it as, more responsibility than what was advertised. Unfortunately at this farmers market, there weren’t any chocolate stuffed pretzels to eat or buy.

The Echuca Farmers Market that my parents and I went to opened earlier than most I’ve attended so we forewent breakfast at the motel, deciding that since breakfast was a meant to be available at the farmers market, and fresh local produce is always nicer than store-bought anything, it was something that we were not going to miss. I had been definitely hoping for something baked, perhaps a croissant, filled or not or even a steaming hot cinnamon scroll complete with cream cheese frosting. Fresh fruit salad, or even a variety of hot drinks to choose from.

But instead of the large array of food options that I have come to unfortunately expect and take for granted of at other farmers markets, the only option we had was a hot breakfast roll. While there is nothing wrong with a savoury breakfast; a childhood of eating sweeter breakfasts, hazelnut-chocolate spread on toast or corn flakes smothered with honey and milk, for example, make it difficult for me to enjoy bacon and eggs on a roll. 

“What can I get for you?”

The woman behind the counter is middle-aged, with brown hair held back in a ponytail and a cheerful grin stretched across her face. She has tired eyes, as though she hadn’t slept for too long before her obligation to be at the market came to ahead.

“May I have two bacon, egg and tomato rolls and another one without the bacon.”

Ordering at a counter, rather than online is another adult responsibility that gives me anxiety on the best of days and first thing in the morning it's almost a miracle that I was awake enough to focus. I always get funny looks from people when I politely request no bacon for things, but this time there was none from the woman behind the counter. No judgement whatsoever, but that could have been because she and the man cooking everything were swamped with orders.

After eating and with my hands and face coated in the grease from the egg and trying to corral a photograph or two from a cheeky kookaburra sitting and cackling at the comings and goings of the market-goers, we bought some of the local produce from other sellers around the market; some honey and a large bag of oranges that had only been picked the day before and bacon avocados, that unlike their name suggests did not actually taste like bacon, but were slightly stringier than expected but still just as nice. 

Once we got home, piles of books and fresh produce in the backseat of the car Dad jokingly told mum and I that we had to pay him a ludicrous amount for the ‘smashed avo on toast’ and the delicious freshly squeezed orange juice since it was served at his cafe.  I offered him all the cash I had in my wallet at the time; four dollars sixty-five in a number of silver coins. 

He declined.

After leaving the farmers market finding a bookstore was on my mind. There was a small church nearby that was just opening for the day, with a sign out the front reading Craft & Book Market. Wandering into the church the market was only just being set up with only two people, an elderly husband and wife who were moving the shelving at the front of the church frantically and stacking books onto empty tables with sharpie written signs showing the prices hastily thrown on top books. There wasn’t a craft section set up, just the books. It was a slight shame, but knowing that I would have spent double the amount of money if there had been crafts there and not just the books that I was there to peruse; my savings account would thank me later.

The books at been sectioned out in one dollar, two dollar and three dollar shelves which made it easier to actually see what books would cost what; the only thought that I had was that more second-hand shops should institute the system. I picked up a selection before panicking; I didn’t have a whole lot of physical cash on my person, and the couple had no EFTPOS machine. The husband and wife were thankfully busy stacking and moving books, so I promptly dumped the books that I was carrying onto the table and pulled out my wallet, emptying the contents out onto the table. 

Out of my wallet tumbled scrunched up receipts and far too many five and ten cent coins, but I had enough, eventually scrounging for seven dollars in varying coins of the gold and silver variety to give to the salesperson. The couple weren’t paying attention to me, even as I waited patiently to be served. It wasn't until someone else entered the church that they looked up and saw me standing at the table with the cash box, struggling with the books on one arm and the numerous coins in the other hand.

I was underwhelmed by midmorning; the farmers market was not what I had expected, but the local produce and people made the experience all the better whereas the book and craft market was lacking in character, no energy. 

Flat. Lifeless. Almost sad and empty.

I only hoped that the search for an actual bookstore wasn’t going to be like that. New bookstores are orderly, almost clinical and have lists upon lists of bestsellers and new releases that are ‘guaranteed to be the next big thing’ but still maintain an aura that’s welcoming and open, whereas secondhand bookstores have the characteristic of stepping into an old fantasy realm, where goblins may jump out at you at anytime and you have to search through ancient ruins and long forgotten temples for a single treasure that could potentially be worth a fortune, even if just to the person who found it. Treasure hunting is always more fun than knowing the exact path to take after all.

A lesson learned from both life and books; knowing the path set out for you is nice in theory, but its predictable whereas when you veer off of the pathway and get lost in the forest you may get lost, but you may also find a town long thought lost. Or an art gallery with works by talented artists who have never exhibited outside of Echuca.

This led me to Read Heeler a little secondhand bookstore that I had read fantastic things about online. The only problem was that Google Maps and I have a complicated relationship; meaning I go in one direction when the map is leading me off in another.

Walking into Read Heeler, a secondhand bookstore almost on the outskirts of Echuca, was like walking into a very chaotically organised library, books of varying shapes and sizes in haphazard piles tipsily standing in front of already overcrowded bookcases and a very clear dog motif littering the store. Porcelain dogs, plastic, stuffed toys and posters all to do with dogs; it honestly reminds me of a time when I was obsessed with horses and covered every possible surface in my bedroom with horses and ponies. It was honestly a wonder that there was room to move, with how many wonderful worlds were crammed into such a small space.

A majority of the newer books in the store congregated in the Young Adult and Children’s corner right at the back of the store, a sadness comes upon me. There is an almost guarantee that a majority of these books were given as gifts by parents or grandparents hoping that their children or grandchildren would read and enjoy them. Sadly this hope was dashed for the most part when technology became more common and available to the masses, even if studies recently suggest the reading habits of young Australians are on the uptake.

The books are stacked on stacks, piled on piles, one in front of another and causing me to dig through them taking far longer than expected time. Enough time that my parents both left the shop, wandering off on their own to find something to eat and a public toilet. There really does seem to be a general lack of available public toilets in most places, but definitely in Echuca.

After eventually finding a book I had read many years earlier, I paid at the counter. The man behind the counter was middle-aged, rosy cheeks and wearing glasses that made his eyes look too big for his face. I had interrupted him reading the newspaper, and he sent me a glare because of it.

The car ride home seemed to be less colourful than the morning earlier on in the day. Less adventurous and more of a trip to remind me that life continues onwards and that I have work in the morning, like a responsible adult that I most definitely do not feel like I am. The scenery seems drab with the colours being washed out, the sky darkening with each passing minute; not because of the time of day, but because any moment and the sky will split in two and start pouring down rain.

There is a book that I picked up at Read Heelers, which happened to be Clockwork Prince by Cassandra Clare, almost brand-new and if not for the pencilled in price anyone could have thought it had been brought elsewhere. I had read this book early in my teens and I remembered loving it then, but something about it at that moment doesn’t click. The exuberance of children reading a book for the first, or seventh time wasn’t there anymore, at least not for this book. Even reading parts of the book that I remember had lost the shine on them; no longer glistening like the Murray River we had just been to but much like the book market it had become flat and empty.

The hunt for the book seemed to be much more exciting, rummaging through the piles and stacks and shelving that had clearly seen better days with creaking walls and books that had been well-read and thumbed through than actually reading the book itself.

That seems to be what adulthood is like for me, trying desperately to hold onto the nostalgia of childhood whilst dreading the responsibilities of the adulthood ahead of me that I feel so desperately underprepared for. Like the Farmers Market, lacking in things that seem to bring joy and only holding the necessities of life.

(The following was an assignment written for university, with the intent to convey nostalgia in the reader. No offence is meant for any involved within the story, regardless of words used I did enjoy myself immensely.)

Weekends, when I was younger, were early morning affairs.  There were Saturday morning cartoons, and the occasional pancake before heading off in the car with a book to devour and a different end location than home. I never took much notice of the world around me, much to the dismay of my mother as my head was constantly in a book or, as I got older distracted and listening through headphones to The Adventure Zone podcast by the McElroy’s. 

Markets were always a different place, new and exciting with so many things to purchase. At school markets, there was always a group of us kids running around, whilst our parents would try their very vest to corral us into behaving ourselves.  

It didn’t work. 

Night markets always ended with children acting like wolves, howling at the moon standing atop the playground with strangers and family members alike shaking their heads at the general weirdness of children gone wild. As an adult there is still the public expectancy to behave yourself of course, but with heightened responsibility of having to purchase your own goods rather than using the money that your parents have given you specifically to buy yourself a chocolate stuffed pretzel. Being an adult is harder than what television and movies portray it as, more responsibility than what was advertised. Unfortunately at this farmers market, there weren’t any chocolate stuffed pretzels to eat or buy.

The Echuca Farmers Market that my parents and I went to opened earlier than most I’ve attended so we forewent breakfast at the motel, deciding that since breakfast was a meant to be available at the farmers market, and fresh local produce is always nicer than store-bought anything, it was something that we were not going to miss. I had been definitely hoping for something baked, perhaps a croissant, filled or not or even a steaming hot cinnamon scroll complete with cream cheese frosting. Fresh fruit salad, or even a variety of hot drinks to choose from.

But instead of the large array of food options that I have come to unfortunately expect and take for granted of at other farmers markets, the only option we had was a hot breakfast roll. While there is nothing wrong with a savoury breakfast; a childhood of eating sweeter breakfasts, hazelnut-chocolate spread on toast or corn flakes smothered with honey and milk, for example, make it difficult for me to enjoy bacon and eggs on a roll. 

“What can I get for you?”

The woman behind the counter is middle-aged, with brown hair held back in a ponytail and a cheerful grin stretched across her face. She has tired eyes, as though she hadn’t slept for too long before her obligation to be at the market came to ahead.

“May I have two bacon, egg and tomato rolls and another one without the bacon.”

Ordering at a counter, rather than online is another adult responsibility that gives me anxiety on the best of days and first thing in the morning it's almost a miracle that I was awake enough to focus. I always get funny looks from people when I politely request no bacon for things, but this time there was none from the woman behind the counter. No judgement whatsoever, but that could have been because she and the man cooking everything were swamped with orders.

After eating and with my hands and face coated in the grease from the egg and trying to corral a photograph or two from a cheeky kookaburra sitting and cackling at the comings and goings of the market-goers, we bought some of the local produce from other sellers around the market; some honey and a large bag of oranges that had only been picked the day before and bacon avocados, that unlike their name suggests did not actually taste like bacon, but were slightly stringier than expected but still just as nice. 

Once we got home, piles of books and fresh produce in the backseat of the car Dad jokingly told mum and I that we had to pay him a ludicrous amount for the ‘smashed avo on toast’ and the delicious freshly squeezed orange juice since it was served at his cafe.  I offered him all the cash I had in my wallet at the time; four dollars sixty-five in a number of silver coins. 

He declined.

After leaving the farmers market finding a bookstore was on my mind. There was a small church nearby that was just opening for the day, with a sign out the front reading Craft & Book Market. Wandering into the church the market was only just being set up with only two people, an elderly husband and wife who were moving the shelving at the front of the church frantically and stacking books onto empty tables with sharpie written signs showing the prices hastily thrown on top books. There wasn’t a craft section set up, just the books. It was a slight shame, but knowing that I would have spent double the amount of money if there had been crafts there and not just the books that I was there to peruse; my savings account would thank me later.

The books at been sectioned out in one dollar, two dollar and three dollar shelves which made it easier to actually see what books would cost what; the only thought that I had was that more second-hand shops should institute the system. I picked up a selection before panicking; I didn’t have a whole lot of physical cash on my person, and the couple had no EFTPOS machine. The husband and wife were thankfully busy stacking and moving books, so I promptly dumped the books that I was carrying onto the table and pulled out my wallet, emptying the contents out onto the table. 

Out of my wallet tumbled scrunched up receipts and far too many five and ten cent coins, but I had enough, eventually scrounging for seven dollars in varying coins of the gold and silver variety to give to the salesperson. The couple weren’t paying attention to me, even as I waited patiently to be served. It wasn't until someone else entered the church that they looked up and saw me standing at the table with the cash box, struggling with the books on one arm and the numerous coins in the other hand.

I was underwhelmed by midmorning; the farmers market was not what I had expected, but the local produce and people made the experience all the better whereas the book and craft market was lacking in character, no energy. 

Flat. Lifeless. Almost sad and empty.

I only hoped that the search for an actual bookstore wasn’t going to be like that. New bookstores are orderly, almost clinical and have lists upon lists of bestsellers and new releases that are ‘guaranteed to be the next big thing’ but still maintain an aura that’s welcoming and open, whereas secondhand bookstores have the characteristic of stepping into an old fantasy realm, where goblins may jump out at you at anytime and you have to search through ancient ruins and long forgotten temples for a single treasure that could potentially be worth a fortune, even if just to the person who found it. Treasure hunting is always more fun than knowing the exact path to take after all.

A lesson learned from both life and books; knowing the path set out for you is nice in theory, but its predictable whereas when you veer off of the pathway and get lost in the forest you may get lost, but you may also find a town long thought lost. Or an art gallery with works by talented artists who have never exhibited outside of Echuca.

This led me to Read Heeler a little secondhand bookstore that I had read fantastic things about online. The only problem was that Google Maps and I have a complicated relationship; meaning I go in one direction when the map is leading me off in another.

Walking into Read Heeler, a secondhand bookstore almost on the outskirts of Echuca, was like walking into a very chaotically organised library, books of varying shapes and sizes in haphazard piles tipsily standing in front of already overcrowded bookcases and a very clear dog motif littering the store. Porcelain dogs, plastic, stuffed toys and posters all to do with dogs; it honestly reminds me of a time when I was obsessed with horses and covered every possible surface in my bedroom with horses and ponies. It was honestly a wonder that there was room to move, with how many wonderful worlds were crammed into such a small space.

A majority of the newer books in the store congregated in the Young Adult and Children’s corner right at the back of the store, a sadness comes upon me. There is an almost guarantee that a majority of these books were given as gifts by parents or grandparents hoping that their children or grandchildren would read and enjoy them. Sadly this hope was dashed for the most part when technology became more common and available to the masses, even if studies recently suggest the reading habits of young Australians are on the uptake.

The books are stacked on stacks, piled on piles, one in front of another and causing me to dig through them taking far longer than expected time. Enough time that my parents both left the shop, wandering off on their own to find something to eat and a public toilet. There really does seem to be a general lack of available public toilets in most places, but definitely in Echuca.

After eventually finding a book I had read many years earlier, I paid at the counter. The man behind the counter was middle-aged, rosy cheeks and wearing glasses that made his eyes look too big for his face. I had interrupted him reading the newspaper, and he sent me a glare because of it.

The car ride home seemed to be less colourful than the morning earlier on in the day. Less adventurous and more of a trip to remind me that life continues onwards and that I have work in the morning, like a responsible adult that I most definitely do not feel like I am. The scenery seems drab with the colours being washed out, the sky darkening with each passing minute; not because of the time of day, but because any moment and the sky will split in two and start pouring down rain.

There is a book that I picked up at Read Heelers, which happened to be Clockwork Prince by Cassandra Clare, almost brand-new and if not for the pencilled in price anyone could have thought it had been brought elsewhere. I had read this book early in my teens and I remembered loving it then, but something about it at that moment doesn’t click. The exuberance of children reading a book for the first, or seventh time wasn’t there anymore, at least not for this book. Even reading parts of the book that I remember had lost the shine on them; no longer glistening like the Murray River we had just been to but much like the book market it had become flat and empty.

The hunt for the book seemed to be much more exciting, rummaging through the piles and stacks and shelving that had clearly seen better days with creaking walls and books that had been well-read and thumbed through than actually reading the book itself.

That seems to be what adulthood is like for me, trying desperately to hold onto the nostalgia of childhood whilst dreading the responsibilities of the adulthood ahead of me that I feel so desperately underprepared for. Like the Farmers Market, lacking in things that seem to bring joy and only holding the necessities of life.