"Of course," I say emphatically. "She's great, wonderful, in fact. This relationship is just very new, and living down here is a huge change. I know you guys are really trying to make a go of this goat farm, but I want you to protect yourself a little."
Dad is quiet for the rest of the ride, and I'm hoping that my words have had an effect on him. He's got to see that his decision was rash. If he loses his rent-controlled apartment, it would be impossible for them to find something in New York that they could afford. I'm not being a buzzkill, I'm just being realistic. Those are two very different things, right?
* * *
The farmer'smarket near Chapel Hill is much smaller than the one in Brooklyn and has charm coming out of its mung beans. The vendors' stalls are housed under a gorgeous wooden pavilion made of the warmest pine I've ever seen. On the walk over from the car, we pass a group of elderly people doing tai chi, a middle-aged hula hooper, and a young woman standing in front of a table with a sign that says Everything Free Market. It's the kind of hippie scene you'd expect to find in northern California, and seeing it in the South takes me by surprise. Dad leads me to our table, and I help him spread Renata's pretty blue and white checked cloth across it. He has a system for setting everything up, and I follow his lead.
"We'll cut up cheese samples when it's closer to opening time," he tells me while standing up a small sign that readsOne dozen farm fresh eggs $5.
"I'm impressed," I say. "You've got this down to a science."
Dad smiles. "It's a lot of fun. I like getting out here and talking to people. We do a decent business, and we're getting our name out there."
He sets up two folding chairs for us to sit on while we wait for the market to open. I'm thankful that he also brought two cushions so my sweaty thighs won't adhere to the metal seat.
"What's the long-term game plan for the farm?" I ask, after taking a seat.
"We're hoping some local chefs will try our cheeses and ask us to supply their restaurants. Then we can start producing in larger batches, but we'd need to own more goats to do that."
"More goats? It seems like you have a lot already."
"Well, they don't produce that much milk. In fact, females only produce milk if they're bred so last winter Renata had to hire a buck to impregnate the herd."
I wrinkle my nose. "One buck for all those females? That seems a little sister wife-ish to me."
Dad smiles. "Very funny. Renata sold the kids that were born last spring. If we have more cheese orders, we could keep the offspring next time, at least the females, and maybe one or two bucks."
Personally, I think there are more direct ways of getting people to taste Joyful Goat Farm cheese than getting up early and sitting in the miserable heat all day, hoping someone will stop by the table and taste the feta, but I don't say so. Over the last few days, I've realized that Renata is so focused on the science end of cheesemaking, she hasn't had time to think about marketing. Clearly, my father with his little farmer's market cheese stand doesn't have a clue, but I've been percolating with ideas. Joyful Goat Farm has zero social media presence, and they need to set up a website and an Instagram account for their business. They could arrange tasting appointments with local chefs, as well as with buyers at local fine foods stores. And then there's the missed opportunity of having events at the farm.
There's only one thing stopping me from making suggestions that could help them build their business: I want my father to come home. If the goat farm becomes a success, there's a good chance Dad will stay here forever.
"What do you enjoy about the goat farm?" I ask. "Other than being with Renata."
Dad pauses, then says, "It's peaceful. I like the pace of life at the farm. We're busy, for sure, but it's different. There's no need to hurry anywhere, and I don't have to deal with commuter traffic or keep up with which subway line is closed. That got old."
"True."
There's not much I can say in defense of New York's dirty, inefficient subway system.
"It's more than that though," he says. "As a teacher you're always thinking about your students' futures. I spent thirty-three years helping other people launch into the world, and I loved it. But now it's my turn. Renata and I are building something for ourselves, and that feels really great."
A lump forms in my throat. When he puts it that way, I can't bear to think his venture will fail. If I get what I want, it will be because Renata and Dad's dream has died.
Throughout the morning, other vendors smile and say good morning to Dad. When he greets them back, he knows many of their names. This doesn't surprise me. At school, he made sure he knew the name of everyone on the faculty and staff, which isn't easy at a large city high school. Many of his closest friends were from work—the guys he jogged with on the weekends, the women who fixed him up on dates over the years, the people who watched me grow up and saw him transition from married man to single Dad. It was unfathomable to me that Dad cut his ties with these people so abruptly when they were an integral part of his life for over thirty years. There was no retirement celebration for him, not even a goodbye party with his beloved history department members. I still can't wrap my head around how he could jettison his old life when it obviously meant so much to him.
"Have you talked to anyone from back home?" I ask.
"Sure. Mitch called me a few days ago. And I talked to Victor last week."
These are two of Dad's oldest friends who are like uncles to me. Mitch likes to tell people that the first time he met me, I peed on him. Obviously, I loved it when he told that story to my friends when I was in middle and high school.
"What did they have to say about you moving down here permanently?"
Dad takes a sip of his coffee, and I'm jealous he has some left. Mine was gone before we were halfway to the market.
"I think they're a little confused." Dad chuckles like this is silly of them. "You know Vic wouldn't even consider moving to Jersey so my moving down here is—" He makes a gesture with his hands to simulate a brain explosion. "But he said he and Angie will come down and visit me at some point, maybe this fall. Mitch made me promise not to become a Trump supporter. I don't let that kind of closed-minded comment bother me though. They don't know what it's really like here." He greets another vendor with a wave, then says, "I should probably call your mom and tell her what's going on with me."
"Why?" I ask, completely baffled by this statement.
