Seven years ago I left Southampton, New York, and a readily available supply of organic produce. As a yoga instructor, I am pretty health conscious and was thrilled to see all the farms and farm stands dotting the roadsides on the Eastern Shore while I was looking for a place to buy in Dorchester County. Only after I moved to Rhodesdale did I discover that these produce purveyors were selling the same non-organic stuff I could buy at the supermarket. Instead, they were more focused on hawking silhouettes of cats and dogs and Victorian garden balls. I traveled up and down the highways from Cambridge to Salisbury and Secretary to Hurlock begging farm stand owners to just try a few organic products. A scratch of the head was the pervading answer.

I realized it was up to me to change the eating habits of Dorchester and Wicomico counties. I would open an organic farm stand.

Things quickly fell into place. A friend told me about an eighteen-foot farm stand for sale near my house, and the farmer who owned it quickly dropped the price just to get the eyesore off his property. I told him I was going to sell organic produce, and he wished me luck and shook his head. He told me he knew a farmer who had property for rent in Linkwood on Route 50. I had driven past the dreamy little red cabin with the white porch and cutesy tin roof. I called him as soon as I got home and jumped on the deal: $150 a month.

The farm stand needed work, and my friends were there to help. We replaced rotted wood and scrubbed and painted. We mounted shelves and baskets bought to hold the produce. The final touch was installing the five green-and-white-striped panels that lifted up on three sides to look like old-time awnings. One friend designed the sign; another painted it. “Gail’s Kale” was born with the stroke of a brush.

By then, I realized I knew nothing about the produce business. But, you must realize, I am also the idiot who moved here not knowing anybody in the area. Challenges, I’ve learned, are simply things you don’t realize are going to be challenges until it’s too late. I spent hours on the phone, calling everybody who, it seems, had ever grown, sold, or eaten an organic tomato. I finally lined up a few local growers and one wholesaler to provide produce that wasn’t in season here. The only problem was, I had to buy nearly $500 worth of produce to insure delivery from New Jersey—and I had no customer base as yet.

I opened my doors on Mother’s Day weekend. Produce overflowed the shelves and plants and flowers surrounded it. It was so pretty. And lo’ and behold, cars stopped! People (almost all beach-goers) were thrilled to see organic produce, including such exotic veggies as tatsoi, pac choi, and Asian greens. Inside the cabin, I sold other organic goodies: dog biscuits, creams, candles, and teas. My landlord was also busy; he was planting corn around Gail’s Kale. Ah, nature at work.

But within five days I was tossing out wilted spinach, brown lettuce, and withered asparagus. Despite all the ice I packed around the produce, its shelf life was way shorter than my line of customers. I bought a second refrigerator. A month went by and so did most of the traffic. The fourth huge delivery was dropped off from New Jersey. I packed the cases of perishables into the refrigerators, congratulating myself on finishing before a violent storm rolled in. I went home and returned the next day to find the cabin flooded and the electricity short-circuited. Most of the produce had spoiled in the steamy refrigerators. My tears joined the continuing downpour.

But I wasn’t done. I pulled up my big girl socks and continued onward.

I worked a deal with the wholesaler so I could buy less produce. Local growers worked with me to keep me afloat. But finding produce was always difficult, especially during what I called the “Squash Wars.” I unwittingly bought from one grower until his crop was depleted. Then I went to another one, who refused to sell to me because he had heard via the organic grapevine that I had bought from his arch enemy. Who knew the veggie biz was so cutthroat?

Then there was the problem of the corn. I watched it grow in my landlord’s field until it dwarfed my farm stand, blocking it from view of passing cars. I solved that problem by putting a sign on the adjacent property announcing “Gail’s Kale Ahead.”

Almost all the neighboring businesses wanted me to succeed and made up the majority of non-beach traffic that supported me. With better signage, more people started stopping. One day, a woman and her five-year-old son stopped on their way back from Ocean City. He scampered out of the car while she checked out my organically homegrown romaine lettuce. I was bagging it when we both turned to look for her son. He was peeing on my landlord’s corn. She was horribly embarrassed; I gave him an apple.

Of course, not everyone warmed to the idea of these pricey products. One sunny afternoon, I, with a disposition to match, walked out to greet a trucker pulling an eighteen-wheeler. He picked up an ear of corn, tore back its silks, and took a bite. He smacked his lips and asked for two dozen ears. I loaded up a couple of bags, handed them to him, and asked for $24. He angrily shoved the bags back at me and wordlessly climbed into his truck. I looked into the bag and saw the teeth marks he had left behind. As he pulled away, I threw the ear of corn after him, grinning as it hit his bumper.

The summer dragged on. I had never worked so hard for so little money. I broke even, but the thrill was gone. Supermarkets were selling packaged organic produce and undercutting my prices. Not enough people cared that my plump heirloom tomatoes and succulent peaches were fresh and local. A few organic growers talked about shutting down their operations because it was so difficult to reap any profits.

Thankfully, the dog days of August gave way to Labor Day, which marked the end of the season. My repeat customers and growers asked me to stay open. Instead, I was counting the dwindling minutes of my final day in business, which gave me a chance to reflect on my summer’s endeavor.

Farm stands started out as a way for farmers to sell their products directly to the public. One of the most frequent questions I was asked was, “Do you grow this yourself?” I would explain I was the middleman, a fairly untenable position I learned over the course of the summer. When I wasn’t selling produce, I was looking for it. My prices weren’t as low as I would have liked them to be. But I took on a totally unknown business and survived. Of course, I had hoped to do more. Yet despite all the negatives, I am glad I did it. I met some lovely people and learned how to solve problems, albeit, most of my own making.

As the sun was setting, some friends arrived with champagne for the wake. I closed the striped awnings on Gail’s Kale for the last time. Then I raised my glass to the heavens and swore, “As God is my witness, I’ll never run a farm stand again.” nCL

Freelance writer Gail Buchalter continues to purchase organic vegetables—but only for herself.