With Soul | The Nostalgia of Pickles
How one phone called helped me realize the importance of tradition
It’s 2021, and we’re hosting the first Fall Festival since 2019. Our Executive Director left 6 weeks ago, and it hasn’t been easy picking up the pieces to an event with so many moving parts.
We’re ten days out from the first day and not one food vendor is approved to operate on Town Property. It’s a tenuous process, and I’m in way too deep.
Certificate of insurances are being bounced back, and I’m expected to know what “subjugation of additional insured” means. In the midst of reading another Certificate of Insurance to match policy numbers, the work line rings.
I hesitantly answer the phone and it’s an older woman. Great.
“Hello there, I was wondering if the pickle lady will be at the festival?”
Internally I scoff: at this point, we’ll be lucky to have any food vendors at the festival. It makes my stomach turn to think it could fail at a seismic level. This woman seems sweet, so I take a breath and respond.
“We’re hoping to have Pickle me Pete there, yes”
“That’s fine, sweetheart. But what about the pickle lady. My husband and I visit her every year- we’ve been going to her since the festival was on Main Street.”
I let out a sigh. This isn’t the first person to ask about this Pickle Lady and while I tried to ask her back, she retired after Covid.
“I’m so sorry. The old pickle vendor didn’t want to come back this year after Covid. But I’ve heard Pickle me Pete is fantastic. He’ll be in the same place as her.”
I hear her sigh on the other line. “Okay, sweetheart. All this change is so hard.” And she hangs up the line.
“It sure is”, I whisper to the dial tone.
It took a village of support and grace from Town Hall, but we were able to host the Fall Festival. Even better? There weren’t too many hiccups.
It’s Sunday, and I’m enjoying an early morning cruise in my golf cart, reminiscing about the night before when Dan and I decided to “try this whole thing as a couple out.” As I smile at the memory, I see an older couple entering by the playground. In their eighties, they’re dressed beautifully, holding their canes on the outside, and holding hands in the middle. They rest at the first bench and I decide to drive down the path to see if I can sneak a photo of them.
“Excuse me. I hate to ask, but would you mind giving us a lift?” the older gentleman asks as I approach. Smiling, I say “of course” and turn around to make it easier for them to climb in.
“Where are we going” I ask as I slowly move forward. “Could you take us to the pickle vendor? I forgot what the young woman on the phone said his name was.” It was the woman from the phone call. Not wanting to out myself in case I was unintentionally rude, we drive to Pickle me Pete’s tent and enjoy some small talk along the way. I pull up as close as I can to the tent, and politely ask Pete if my new friends could cut the line. Pete smiles, and says “of course”, and I wait next to my golf cart as they order.
When they’re ready to leave, they ask me to drive them to a different bench by the lake. “It’s where we had many conversations in life” he tells me, and I do. As we say our goodbyes she says “It’s a good thing we saw you. We were going to skip the pickles this year because it was too far, but now we’ve continued our tradition.”
This will be my third year as one of the organizers of this Festival, and I’m more grateful than ever before. I often compare Huntington to “Stars Hollow”: we have our own Taylor Doosey’s, a few Kirks, and we all have our own “Lukes”, but it wasn’t until living here that I realized the value of having a cast of characters like that around you.
It’s a community built on tradition, and our Fall Festival is one of those. Little changes will keep it fresh, but it’s the families that come back year after year, with new additions to keep the tradition their own that make the weekend special.
I have my own traditions at the Festival, too. As an ode to our relationship starting, Dan and I get empanadas from Lisa (there’s a drunk Leanne story there) and enjoy the headlining band. Last year, I started a “before opening” Bumper Cars ride that I hope to continue this upcoming weekend, too.
Life changes so quickly, but this festival has reminded the importance of allowing roots to grow. As someone who has been transient most of her twenties, the last three years has taught me how nice life is when you have a beautiful home to return to. I might not have been born here, but Huntington is my home. Our wedding will be in the village we walk so often, and one day, our baby will be born here, too.
Many years from now, Dan and I will be holding hands as we wobble on our canes, visiting the Festival and hoping there’s some sort of empanada we can share.
And, that’s all because a woman called about Pickle.
As always, I’m grateful you’re here. I will be skipping “Salt” this week because it’s a hectic one, but feel free to follow the making of the Festival on Instagram- Leannegelish.
We’ll talk soon, friends.