This is a post from my sister, Mary, who joins me here on the blog a few times a month!

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This past weekend was a fall favorite in our little town here in the shadow of the Allegheny Mountains. It is one of those annual events that you just don't miss. The kind that stirs up all kinds of gratitude for the sweet little all-American town that you live in. Known as the Steam and Craft show, it is in its 38th year of existence. Don't let the "steam" or the "craft" really throw you. It is mostly about tractors. Tractors and more tractors. Of all ages, types, and conditions. And the people that love them, young and old.

Now there are a few of the big, ancient steam tractors, with the ear piercing whistles and their slow, steady crawl.

There are the expertly refurbished models. With a gleam and shine that indicate they will never see the field again.

And then there are the ones waiting to be refurbished. But appreciated all the same.

There are ones with faces and names.

But the "craft" portion translates into a shopping experience that can't be duplicated. As a kid, I remember saving my money to buy a baseball tshirt with a glittery Apaloosa horse decal on the front. It is a mixed bag. Pillows and purses alongside fuel filters and pitchforks. The choices of snaps and hooks was a bit overwhelming, to say the least.

Oh, and dental picks! Hemastats! At great prices!

It is a time to walk among the tractors, to study and appreciate them, to be grateful for the years of service they have given, to reminisce about the ones that used to be on the family farm. An entire weekend to talk tractor.

While the lower field is full of tractors, more activity awaits at the top of the field. Pies are being sold, apple butter is churning. The secret recipe, a local stew, is being served piping hot from a large black kettle. Homemade potato chips, kettle corn. Greasy grub off the grill being served up by the school's athletes and their families.

The culmination of the first day is the parade. It really is my favorite part. Led by the middle and high school bands and the mayor, the tractors all fire up and are driven by their owners right down Main Street. It is a chance to see them with their owners, and families. In all their glory. If the original owner is too frail to drive, they may be pulled behind on a wagon, comfortably seated on a lawn chair or even a sofa. Or if the owner is too young to drive her pink tractor, her Dad will help out, and will be manly enough to drive a pink tractor through town.

While my education and life experiences have taken me far away from my little hometown in the past, it is times like this that I am especially glad I am here. I feel like I stop and realize, just for a second, that this is my town right now. My people. And I am proud of it all.

A post from Mary...

I think every mom feels like they wear many different hats throughout the day. Thursdays, for me, is the day I take off my parenting hat, pass it to my wonderful husband for the day, and get to put on my farmer's hat. Farmer's market hat, that is. And no, I am not the mother strolling through the market, basket on arm, admiring the assortment of fresh produce. I get to be the farmer, marketing the goods to the "city folk".

I rise early, rolling out of bed when the clock reads 3 something, dress and grab my super-sized water bottle and pick up mi amigo for the day. Oscar is a 20 something Honduran fellow, who works for our boss, my friend. He is an incredible worker, speaking about 15% english, which means our entire day is spoken in Spanish, which tends to stretch my Spanish vocabulary to its limits. He is working in the States, and sending his earnings home to put two younger brothers through medical school. We are a good pair. Our boss is my friend, and he and his wife run an ever-evolving, cutting edge, Facebook-using fruit and vegetable farm that grows the heirloom varieties that your grandmother grew.

Oscar and I load the truck, a nice little 16000 pound, fourteen foot box truck, in the dark with multiple pallets of fresh produce, and all the necessities including table cloths. We roll into the gas station for necessary hard tack...a jumbo sized cup of joe for me, mango juice for Oscar. It is always amusing to pull into the local gas station at 4 in the morning when all the construction type workers are filling up for the day. There is always an element of surprise I enjoy when this pony-tailed momma jumps out of her truck. I've never had the door held open for me with quite the same flair as I do at that early hour.

Down the road we go, to the "city" and set up our canopies, tables and displays of fresh and good eats. The cow bell tolls and we sell, sell, sell. It is a mental exercise for me. Half my brain is recalling from memory my prices x pounds of fruit, adding up the total, counting back change, while the second half of my brain simultaneously regurgitates a wonderful italian prune plum crumble recipe. The clientele are predominantly older folks at this particular market, and for the most part are very jovial and kind, although from time to time I have to cast a winning smile someone's way to try to dissipate some brewing tension about who was in line first. Or just let them duel it out with their canes and reusable market bags. I have my regulars, too, and the day would not be complete without some small talk with Fran, a slobbery kiss on the cheek from Pete, and the latest health report from John.

After four hours of selling, we tear down and pack it all back up on the truck, grab my weekly dose of fast and greasy food and head back down the road. Back home, I drop the truck off at the farm, and jet the one mile back to my house. I arrive within minutes of the bus that brings my youngest student home, and quickly swap out my hats, again. And I will do it all over again in one week.