Earlier this summer I went to a Gem and Mineral show with my childhood friend Michele and my daughter Hannah. It was an outdoor event at Museum Village in Monroe, NY. The day was perfect with cerulean skies, a gentle breeze, temperatures just right, and a crowd of sunshiny people. The Colonial era museum’s village green was transformed into a tent city populated by crystal-loving, metaphysical-believing, kind-hearted people. Simply put, the day was perfect.

We strolled from vendor to vendor admiring all the beautiful stones and wares. The rock buddies, Hannah and Michele, were off in search of the crystals and gems that spoke to them. I was just enjoying being out of the house, out of my work clothes, and doing something with the girls. My favorite part of events like this is talking to all the fascinating people who are passionate about what they are doing. I love hearing about where they come from, how they got into the profession, and their views on life. You could say I was more interested in procuring stories than rocks. Fortunately for the vendors, Hannah was spending plenty for the two of us.

I met a motorcycle-riding former landscaper from Brooklyn, NY who is prepared to live off the grid. He got into selling gems and minerals after a back injury made it impossible for him to do his old profession. Across from his tent was a small coop with some hens. Naturally, I had to stop and admire them. That is where I bumped into a scarecrow all dressed in black. Sitting on the fence was a tall, lanky, shaggy-haired man just soaking in the sun and atmosphere. I spent a long while chatting with the Bergen County, NJ native (who grew up in an 1800s farmhouse, taught technology, enjoys traveling to trade events, loves playing pinball, and going to the beach at Asbury park) about everything from raising kids to the environment. While we were talking, we saw smoke billowing out of the old blacksmith shop across the green. I felt a strong desire to see what was happening inside so I bade the scarecrow farewell.

On my way to the other side of the green, I caught up with the rock-laden Michele and Hannah. We continued to browse and “ooh and ahh”. I stopped by a booth where a kaftan-wearing bleached blond mature woman was wrapping gemstones for necklaces. She told me that she started in Florida selling wrapped shark tooth necklaces with her flaky Gemini ex-husband. Now she lives in NJ and is obsessed with the swan family living on the lake by her house. She even pulled out her cell phone to show me photos before I continued on my way to see the blacksmith.

There he was - a stout elderly gentleman with Popeye forearms and tufts of white hair springing from his head. He had a cigar pressed between his lips as he banged away on a piece of metal. When he lifted it to place it back into the fire, I could see that it was a knife blade. He explained to me that he was making a set of kitchen knives and that it took a lot longer than making a trip to Walmart. True, but something tells me I would rather own knives made by this man over any I could buy in a box store.

Once I was done admiring his handiwork and gushing about how adorable he was to Michele, we decided that it was time to go. All the fresh air walking, chit-chatting, and shopping were about to make us drop. We agreed on having lunch at Chipotle knowing that even the youngest and pickiest eater in our trio would find something she liked.

We left the bucolic grounds of Museum Village and made our way to a shopping plaza. As we drove towards our destination we saw a row of abandoned shopping carts - castoffs from the various stores housed within the plaza. Michele, who knows me so well, looked out the window and said, “That’s a wondering”. So I snapped a few photos from the passenger side window and off we went to stand in line and place our orders at Chipotle.

While we sat at a small table and devoured our food, I couldn’t help but think about the empanadas I enjoyed earlier in the week while visiting the Goshen Farmer’s Market. As much as the quick meal at Chipotle satiated my hunger, it did little for my soul, unlike my experience every time I stop by the tent for Cornucopia Concepts. The kind owner, Nicholas, sets up at the entrance and visitors usually stop before they enter the market. Over the years my family and I have become creatures of habit and grab our lunch before we peruse produce.

It wasn’t his food that I was missing that day at Chipotle. I was missing the connection I feel to the preparer of the food. We aren’t by any means friends but we are friendly. I know that he has a passion for Greek food, makes amazing baklava, and is very generous. One day when we went to the market without the kids, he sent us home with baklava for them. When I inquired about how he got the prime real estate at the market he told me that he suffers from rheumatoid arthritis and can park his truck next to where he sets up. It’s not just his vegetable empanadas that keep me coming back, but his humanness and openness as well.

There is a reason why I shared these experiences with you and that’s because the sight of those abandoned shopping carts at the edge of an empty massive parking lot bothered me. The brief experience made me feel sad for all of mankind. To me, it represented everything that is wrong with our modern society. So much of our day-to-day life is full of impersonal conveniences while we live in a world that forces us to remain anonymous, dispassionate, and disposable.

I’ve never shopped at a box store and spent time learning about an employee’s life or desires. I’ve never been lit up by their passion for what they are doing. The most I’ve gotten is the obligatory, “Did you find what you were looking for?” for which I want to reply, “No, I’m looking for a connection.” But they will probably just tell me that they don’t carry that. This isn’t a criticism. I am sure that outside of work many of them are interesting and creative souls. Unfortunately, the best parts of them won’t be seen by customers while they are being monitored, rushed, and drained under the artificial glow of fluorescent lighting.

The same goes for the line workers at Chipotle. They must keep the line moving - order, fill, collect money, repeat. They don’t have the time to ask me about my day or tell me about theirs. We are only interacting to fulfill a transaction. I doubt they feel as passionate about the food they are preparing and serving as Nicholas does.

So where does this wondering leave me? Frankly, I’m stumped. This is a topic that not even I can put a positive spin on. I guess it comes down to accepting the dichotomous relationship between the slow pace of life I desire and the reality of the world I live in. Since I’m responsible for making choices that best align with my beliefs, I will do my best to support the hard-working makers and crafters before giving my money to corporations that do little for the employees that make them millions. But when my needs find me wandering through harshly lit aisles I will remember that the employees are much more than the company they work for - they are parents, students, dreamers, and doers and I will do my best to see them and show my appreciation (even if I only have time to do so with a smile).

I hope you enjoy the following slideshow of photos my husband took a few years back at the Goshen Farmers Market. You won’t see moments like this at Walmart.