This is a guest post by essayist Nancy Shohet West, a continuation of a story that started here.  

Chapter 3

The kids have been officially in business together now for a month. (And when I say “officially,” I mean not that they filed for licensure from the Better Business Bureau but that it’s been a month since they put the finishing touches on their sign, a large piece of crimson poster board that says “Who’s On First Banana Bread” in white stencil letters.)

As I wrote about in Part I and Part II of the Banana Bread Blogs, the learning process began long before their first day of sales, as they divvied up the tasks required to produce their flagship product, banana bread, and set themselves on a schedule that would enable them to churn out two dozen loaves a week – which is what they’ve been selling every week so far within the first three hours of the Saturday morning market.

The next major lesson began on their first day of business earlier this month: customer relations. Rick and I sat at their table with them, and at first they were shy, hanging back and waiting for me to greet and chat with customers. “But Daddy, Mommy already knows everyone!” Tim protested when Rick urged him to follow my lead in making conversation.

“Well, how do you think Mommy got to know everyone?” Rick asked. “She makes an effort! She meets people and remembers them!”

I had to smile at Tim’s perception of me. Knowing everyone, or ninety percent of the shoppers and vendors, at Carlisle Farmers’ Market is no great feat: it’s a small town, and a rather select demographic chooses to spend their Saturdays at Farmers’ Market: old-timers, people of all ages who are already knit into the town’s fabric in various ways, or families with young children. In other words, the kinds of people I’d be likely to know.

Still, I was a little bit pleased to hear that in Tim’s eyes, I know everyone: not because the appearance of popularity amidst the Carlisle population is important to me – this isn’t middle school, after all – but because what has always been important to me is imparting the message to my children that they are among friends.

That’s one reason we live in a small town, the same one in which I was raised: so that they can enjoy the rare feeling of being surrounded by familiarity. Having been an overly anxious child myself, I’ve never believed in teaching my children about so-called stranger danger; I feel they’re far safer believing that most of the adults around them are people they can trust. I believe that sense of comfort will help them be better judges of whom not to trust and whom they can turn to when a problem occurs.

But Rick convinced Tim it didn’t matter if I seemed to know everyone and he didn’t; he still needed to reach out to potential customers. So together we urged the kids forward. We reminded them to encourage people to try the samples they’d put out and to greet shoppers with “Good morning!” if there was nothing else to say.

A few visitors to the market engaged them in conversation: one man told them an intriguing piece of trivia about banana distribution, and another customer quizzed them on the ingredients to prove that they really did make it themselves. By the second week, we didn’t need to push them even gently: they were into the rhythm of greeting passers-by, offering samples, chatting with their customers.

So it’s turning out to be yet another positive lesson from Farmers’ Market: greet people as friends and soon they will be. The third week, I left for an hour to go running, and when I came back, the kids gave me a rundown of who had purchased bread. “The lady whose mailbox is across the street, the lady who goes barefoot, the man from church with the plump head, and the people who do yoga with Grandma,” they said. “And some other people we don’t know yet.”

So they’re not great with names, but it’s a start. And they acknowledge that they’ll get more familiar with the clientele if they stay at it. Right now, their biggest incentive to keep their business going is sheer sales: the past two weeks they’ve sold out nearly an hour before the market closed, and needless to say, they love divvying up the cash once they get home.

But they’re learning about customers and community and friends at the same time. I’m not sure which lesson will last longer, but I’m happy to see how much they’ve benefited already, with nearly three months yet to go before the market season ends.

Chapter 4: An Eight-Year-Old with Deep Pockets

When I suggested back in May that my children go into business together as banana bread vendors at Carlisle’s all-inclusive Farmers Market, I wanted to see if they could develop the cooperation skills to work together and the determination to stick with an ongoing project.

I hoped the undertaking would help them to learn patience, organization and customer service skills, and they’ve learned a lot from the experience after their first eight weeks at it.

Interestingly, what I didn’t give much thought to when I first made my suggestion was the fact that if successful, they’d be raking in cash in a manner previously unknown to them. And they’ve been very successful indeed. So their piggy banks have swelled astoundingly over the past two months.

In Tim’s case, it hasn’t affected his spending habits much. He’s a saver; he’s sensible; and the material items he covets tend to be relatively expensive, like X-Box games or online memberships. So he tucked away his earnings for several weeks in a row and then bought a video game he really wanted. Now he’s saving once again.

Holly, on the other hand, is like a crow. Put simply, if it glitters or sparkles, it catches her eye and she wants it. And I don’t just mean jewelry or rhinestones; I mean kitsch. She’s been spending money ever since she started earning it. As the summer progressed, she put her hard-earned cash toward everything from earrings to quiz books to refrigerator magnets to hair clips to the ever-trendy Japanese erasers. And yes, she even bought a pillow pet: a giant stuffed bumble bee that unfolds into a plush pillow.

Since I wasn’t anticipating this newfound wealth on her part, I didn’t think about how much control I should have over it. At eight years old, Holly is old enough to understand what it means to be spending her own money, and she certainly understands the work she put into earning it: she’s right there at Tim’s side every week, greasing pans and beating eggs during the baking phase, and then staffing the booth with him every Saturday morning. So for the most part I’ve taken a hands-off attitude, merely reminding her frequently during our many shopping expeditions that she should think twice about what’s really worth buying and what’s not, but then letting her make her own decisions.

Rick did intervene once in a purchase he simply considered too irresponsible to watch transpire: she wanted to buy a rubber duckie from a sidewalk vendor. “She doesn’t even take baths,” he pointed out to me after firmly steering her away. “And even if it’s her own money she’s wasting, we have to take some responsibility for the environmental side of it. We have the right to tell her she can’t buy useless plastic that will end up in a landfill.”

I agreed with him in that case, but it’s not an easy call. Even as she spent money on odds and ends all summer, she was still saving a lot of it, and eventually she shared with me her scheme: during the last week of vacation, she hoped to do a spending spree at the Build-a-Bear Workshop at the mall.

She’s been asking for weeks now, and yesterday I finally caved and took her to the mall. On the one hand, I was loathe to see her lay out cash for stuffed animals (of which she has dozens already, naturally) and stuffed-animal outfits. On the other, as I’ve been telling her all summer, it’s her money and she has to decide for herself what to do with it. At Build-a-Bear, I asked her as she selected each item – first a stuffed owl, then a pile of outfits and accessories for the owl – “Is this really something you want? Do you really think this is worth buying?”

She did. I did not. And so I struggled with the question about whether to allow it. But I reminded myself these were not impulse buys; she’s been talking about the Build-a-Bear excursion for weeks. And I do believe that mistakes in spending are low-hanging fruit as far as object lessons go: surely as soon as she wishes she had the money for something else, she’ll start thinking more seriously about whether that workout suit and matching headband for the stuffed owl were really so important, and she’ll probably think harder about a similar purchase next time.

More significantly, she didn’t spend all her money at Build-a-Bear. She spent about two-thirds of it, but made a point of keeping some for later. And that amount went right back into her piggy bank when we returned home.

At the cash register, the Build-a-Bear associate tallied up the owl’s outfits and told Holly the total. Then she gave Holly the standard spiel about how she could add an extra dollar to the total as a contribution for a particular charity the company supports.

Holly looked uncertainly at me. “You don’t have to do that,” I told her.

“I do want to give the extra dollar,” she announced firmly. “I want to help.”

That made me feel a lot better about Holly’s spending habits. Not that a dollar for charity is much compared to her overall total, but if spending is going to be a long-term habit of hers, then I can only hope the donation to charity will be as well. In the end, I was proud of that decision if not so much the Build-a-Bear trip in general. But most likely as she grows older, Holly will put less of a priority on stuffed animals and outfit changes for them.

And as that change happens, I can only hope that her priority on charity remains.

Chapter 5: Knowing When to Fold Them

The kids announced yesterday that they feel ready to give up Farmers Market for the season.

They weren’t exasperated or frustrated. They just thought they’d had enough fun with it and were ready to move on. They’ve baked and sold banana bread nearly every week since July 3rd. Over the summer, it proved to be a great project for them, just as I’d hoped. Our summer was characterized by an absence of structured plans, and I encouraged them to pursue the idea of a banana bread business.

From a purely fiscal perspective, it went better than we ever imagined: selling 25 to 30 loaves a week, they raked in the cash. And from the perspective of a learning experience, they acquired new skills as well, just as I’d hoped they would: marketing, sales, customer service.

But it’s possible that no skill they’ve displayed throughout the Farmers’ Market experience was quite so valuable as the one that clued them into the fact that now was the right time to give it up. With homework after school and a need to relax at the end of the day that they didn’t have throughout the summer, they stopped enjoying the process of baking together. Nor did they find it so easy to wake up early on Saturday mornings and load up the car with all their Farmers Market equipment – table, signs, samples, product, cash box – once Saturday became the day they could sleep late after a week of early rising for school.

I admire my kids for this. I know how to bake bread. I know how to talk to customers and count out change. What I’m not so good at is knowing when enough is enough with any given project. But it turns out they do.

It’s harder for me to put an end date on something I’ve decided to do. When I joined the society of “streak runners” – runners who run a mile or more 365 days a year without taking any days off, per the definition of the United States Running Streak Association – I thought it would be a hard commitment to maintain, but three years and one month in, I’m not finding it difficult at all. Getting out there for my few miles every day feels necessary, and I’m never tempted these days to give it up. It’s easier to just get out there and go every day than come up with a reason to stop.

The commitment I find somewhat more difficult to maintain is blogging five days a week. Sometimes I can’t imagine how – or why – I plan to do this day after day without any idea of when I’ll end it. But I can’t seem to entertain the possibility of just changing the schedule. When I launched my blog thirteen months ago, I set out to post every weekday, and that’s what I’ve done. I find it very hard to imagine giving myself permission to change the rules.

My kids, it turns out, are a little less rigid than I am. “Farmers Market was fun. We will definitely do it again next year,” they told me yesterday. “But we’re finished for now.”

I thought about that. They weren’t burned out. Unlike many adults I know, who devote far too much energy to work or volunteer projects, Tim and Holly don’t even know the meaning of “burned out.” True, as children, they don’t have livelihoods that depend on facing down fatigue with persistence, but maybe that’s just one of the perks of childhood: there aren’t that many difficult things that you force yourself to do past the point of where you want to do them.

And for the two of them, it was easy enough to wrap up the Farmers Market season cheerfully. They’ll be back next year. They’re not burned out; they’ve just had enough, and they are able to recognize that fact. I could stand to learn a lot from them in this regard, I suspect.

Nancy Shohet West is a freelance journalist, essayist and blogger in suburban Boston. You can see more of her work at www.NancyShohetWest.com.