Saturday Morning in Maplewood
Every Saturday, Grandma May set up her small stand at the Maplewood Farmers’ Market, just outside Dallas. Her folding table was familiar — a checkered cloth, two neat baskets of brown and white eggs, and a hand-painted sign: “Fresh Farm Eggs – $4 a dozen.”
“Fresh eggs! Straight from my backyard hens!” she called in her warm Southern accent.
A young woman smiled as she handed over a few dollars.
“God bless you, ma’am. These are the best in town,” she said, lifting her tote bag.
May’s face softened. “Thank you, sweetheart. You have a blessed day now.”
Trouble at the Stand
Soon after, Ricky Malone appeared — a twenty-something troublemaker everyone in town knew. No job, always loitering, acting tough.
He swaggered to May’s table, chewing gum.
“Hey, old lady, how about you give me those eggs for half price?”
May kept her voice polite. “Honey, I’m barely covering feed costs.”
Ricky snorted. “Then I guess I’ll just take ’em for free.”
“Please, don’t do this,” May whispered, voice trembling. “My husband’s sick at home. I just need enough for his medicine.”
But Ricky didn’t listen. He grabbed a basket and slammed it onto the pavement. Eggs shattered. Yolk and shell smeared the concrete like spilled paint.
“Oh, Lord have mercy…” May gasped, clutching her apron. “I worked so hard for those.”
The Man in the Suit
Before anyone could react, a black SUV pulled up near the curb. A tall man stepped out, dressed in a crisp navy suit and polished shoes. He didn’t belong at a small-town market.
He walked over calmly.
“Put that basket down,” he said evenly.
Ricky rolled his eyes. “Who the heck are you?”
The man’s tone didn’t waver.
“Someone who’s had enough of watching bullies pick on old ladies.”
He pulled out his wallet, counted a few large bills, and handed them to May.
“I’ll take all your eggs, ma’am. Even the broken ones. Let’s call this your best day of business yet.”
The crowd went silent. Tears welled in May’s eyes.
“Sir… you’re an angel sent from Heaven.”
The man smiled. “Just someone who was raised right, ma’am.”
Accountability, American-Style
As Ricky turned to walk away, the man’s voice stopped him.
“Hold on there, son. You like taking things that don’t belong to you?”
Ricky mumbled, “It was just a joke.”
“Doesn’t look too funny from here,” the man replied.
He waved to a nearby figure — a large man in sunglasses and an earpiece. The truth became clear: this wasn’t just a stranger. The suited man owned Harper Foods, a regional grocery chain sponsoring the market.
In front of everyone, he calmly explained the situation. The guard escorted Ricky off the lot while vendors and shoppers murmured disapproval. The silence was louder than applause.
A Market Remembered
Word spread quickly through town. By the next weekend, people lined up early to buy from Grandma May — not just for the eggs, but out of respect.
Every time someone mentioned that day, she’d smile beneath her straw hat.
“There’s still good folks out there,” she said. “You just have to live long enough to meet one.”
