DeWitt — Farmstands are more than just a roadside attraction, they’re an echo of an older way of life and commerce that still thrives amidst today’s digital noise and supermarket chains.
One of the most compelling aspects of farmstand culture in Michigan is its informality. Unlike traditional storefronts, farmstands often operate outside the regulations that govern grocery stores or farmers markets. This lack of red tape is one of the reasons they’re beloved. There’s freedom in a simple wooden stand filled with ripe tomatoes, a coffee can for cash, and a hand-painted sign that reads “Farm Fresh Eggs – $5.”
This approach isn’t just quaint, it’s efficient. For the farmer, it means fewer hurdles to bring produce directly to his community. For the customer, it’s a chance to support local agriculture without the inflated costs of distribution or retail markups.
The absence of a middleman is one of the most cherished features of farmstands. When shoppers hand a few dollars to the person who grew the food, there’s an immediate sense of connection. In a handshake economy, honesty and community are the currency.
In the time I’ve been running my own stand, I’ve gotten plenty of customers, so many in fact that most weeks our flock of hens can’t keep up. Every season, I keep adding more and more birds hoping to meet the demand.
I’ve developed a few regular customers by this point, most of which are neighbors who I likely never would have met otherwise. Sometimes selling somebody a dozen eggs turns into a “Midwest goodbye,” where you end up having an hour-long conversation. A number of people have also stopped by to tell us how much they love seeing our “employees” (chickens and guinea fowl) running around in our yard.
Beyond just the benefit of making a little extra cash, it’s nice knowing people seem to like what we do. People will often return the empty cartons back to us without even being asked. I’ve even received feedback with helpful tips about how I can improve our setup.
There have been some learning experiences along the way too. About a week after I finished building the farmstand, a heavy storm came through and blew it over, smashing all the eggs inside. Shortly after this incident, I received my first customer comment. It read: “All the eggs I bought are frozen!” Turns out a cooler doesn’t have enough insulation to handle a hard freeze. Now I know to bring the eggs in the house before it gets too cold outside.
In many ways, farmstands harken back to an earlier American tradition where commerce was deeply personal and rooted. Consider the once-common practice of shopkeepers living above their stores, a lifestyle now illegal or heavily regulated in many parts of the country due to zoning laws and modern urban planning. In that era, the boundaries between work, home, and community were blurred in a way that fostered deep social ties. Farmstands replicate this ethos. The farm is both the business and the home, and the family who tills the soil is also the one restocking the shelves and greeting customers.
The intimacy of farmstand culture also reflects a resistance to homogenization. In a world where big-box retailers dominate and food increasingly travels thousands of miles before reaching our plates, farmstands offer an alternative. The produce hasn’t been waxed and stickered in a factory. It was picked that morning, often a stone’s throw from where it’s sold. Shoppers can ask questions like, “What variety of tomato is this?” or “How do you cook kohlrabi?” and get answers straight from the source. It’s a culinary education as much as it is a transaction.
Michigan’s diverse agricultural output makes it a particularly fertile ground for farmstands. From tart cherries in the Northwest to blueberries along the lakeshore and sweet corn in the central plains, the state’s microclimates and rich soil allow for a variety of offerings throughout the growing season. Each region brings its own cultural flavor to the farmstand experience, be it Dutch, Polish, or Native American traditions.
Moreover, the resurgence of interest in sustainability and local food systems has brought renewed attention to these humble stands. Whether it’s organically grown vegetables, free-range eggs, or homemade jams, the appeal lies in knowing where your food comes from and who is behind it.
Of course, farmstands aren’t without challenges. Weather, fluctuating demand, and seasonal limitations all impact their viability. And while they operate with fewer regulations, they also lack the structural support that comes with formal business models such as marketing budgets, refrigeration, or consistent foot traffic. Yet many farmers embrace these limitations, seeing them not as hindrances but as part of the charm.
Michigan’s farmstand culture is a quiet yet powerful form of resistance. It challenges the notion that bigger is always better, that efficiency must come at the cost of connection, and that commerce must be separated from community. It invites us to slow down, to know our neighbors, and to remember that food is not just fuel, but a deep human endeavor.
Whether you’re driving down a dirt road in the Upper Peninsula or passing through the outskirts of Ann Arbor, a small wooden stand might catch your eye. Stop. Pick up a jar of honey or a dozen eggs. Leave some cash in the box. In that simple exchange lies a legacy worth preserving, a taste of Michigan, and a reminder of what really matters.
Wes Contangelo is a homesteader in Michigan.
