Metro Pulse/Secret History/End of an Era

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Mr. Perkins' last stand

by Jack Neely

This has always been the time of year to drop in on Sherrill Perkins, the most persistent of Market Square's farmers. Lately he's been out just two days a week, Mondays and Fridays. It's greens season, and there's nothing better in the fall than fresh greens.

He has a variety of produce on display: four kinds of greens—mustard, collard, turnip, and that other one, in tall baskets; several kinds of apples, a couple varieties of onions, bell peppers, cucumbers, broccoli, honey and jams, salt-cured pork, slabs of bacon sitting right there on the green plywood shelves. The bananas are imported, but most of the rest comes from his own farm on the French Broad.

The greens harvest, delayed this year due to the drought, looks good and fresh, though, and so does the butternut squash. "Boy, they make a good pie," he says. Mr. Perkins is a high-pressure salesman when he needs to be.

A short, broad-faced old woman walks by and says. "How much is your brocco-lilly?"

"Dollar," Mr. Perkins answers. "That's a lot cheaper than the stores."

She agrees, and adds, "I like to eat it just raw." she says.

"Good that way," says Mr. Perkins.

He's been here a long time: 20 years, which trumps nearly everybody else on the Square except maybe for old Roy Lowe. Mr. Lowe, whose farm is near Sevierville, hasn't set up here in recent years nearly as much as Mr. Perkins has, but he goes back to 1957, when the Market House was still here. There are others, too, like the man who sells flowers. There's a little rivalry between them ("I think he comes here just to talk and eat," says one about another), but when traffic's slow, they gather to chat, usually on Mr. Perkins' side.

Mr. Perkins' genial, often stubbly face may be the most familiar one on Market Square. He's wearing overalls and a ballcap marked Fruit of the Valley Produce.

His family has deep connections to this old place. His grandfather, W.T. Perkins, started selling produce here on the Square in the century before last. Later, he was the first farmer to drive a truck onto the Square. Sherrill's two older brothers are both farmers, too, known here and at the county farmer's market. The middle brother, Benny, is hanging around with Sherrill today; he brought some of his own produce, including some black walnuts, $6 for half a pound.

The youngest Perkins has been a farmer all his life; in his youth he sold most of his produce wholesale, or at church sales, or at markets on Chapman Highway, Broadway. But he's just about to give it up. Tomorrow, Friday, Nov. 1, will be Sherrill Perkins' last day on Market Square.

With two new bar/restaurants opening and several residents settling in, and demolition and construction about to begin, it seems to many, an exciting new era for the place.

But for Sherrill Perkins, and to those who still come downtown for fresh produce, it looks like the end of one. The Square has served as a farmer's market for 150 years, and the new plans are supposed to accommodate the farmers. But Mr. Perkins is skeptical. He hasn't reviewed the plans in detail, but he doubts they'll supply adequate shelter to protect him and his produce from the sun and rain.

Moreover, the plan calls for the removal of the Square's public bathrooms. "We need a restroom and running water," he says. Some talk of the bathroom as a magnet for the homeless. To Mr. Perkins and the other farmers, it's a necessity.

Mr. Perkins is a rare advocate of the big shed, the concrete and metal structure built by the city in the mid '80s. It was supposed to evoke the Victorian Market House in a postmodern sort of way, but now it's maligned as an obstacle to residents' views and as a roost for hygiene-challenged pigeons. "That's the best building on the Square," he says. It will be demolished in a week or two.

The laconic Mr. Lowe's not sure he'll return after the dust settles. "I might come back," he says. "I doubt it." Mr. Perkins is more certain. Even if the city were to accommodate him somehow, he's not sure he could accommodate the city. His hands are swollen with arthritis. Like many real farmers, he's had a good deal of trouble with skin cancer. He says he's had over 400 tumors frozen off, and another 50 cut off. Not long ago, he lost the larger part of his left ear to cancer. He talks about it without any particular sense of loss.

Back in 1988, he was told that he had pancreatic cancer, and had only six weeks to live. "Go home and get your things in order," the doctor said. The farmer responded, "My things are already in order." It turned out it was something else. He did give up smoking about that time—he was up to four packs of unfiltered Camels a day. Now he keeps a rolled pouch of Trophy brand tucked into his bib.

His main problem now, though, isn't a life-threatening illness. His hands are swollen with arthritis. "You can just go so far, and that's it," he says. "I figured it's time to give it up.

"I'm retired," he says. "I've got nobody to hand it down to. But that's all right." There's little regret in his voice. He's done pretty well in his life. He says Social Security checks will take care of him and his wife. He plans to take care of some things around the house, maybe take up fishing on the river.

The city may miss Mr. Perkins a good deal more than he misses us.