There is a barely perceptible mist rolling off the bay in the morning when the growers set up for business.
They drive their trucks onto the lawn, using the driveway north of the old bank building that has been turned into a medical office with a stunning loft apartment on the second floor.
On this green space was once a schooner dock and a sawmill. Then a few decades later there was a row of Queen Anne homes, the old Sommerville place, the quirky Patterson house and the graceful Adams home. In the 1930s, the houses came down and a classic pavilion went up. For the past 70 years, this park has been a place for concerts and rallies, for festivals and flea markets.
The farm market here is not just for growers. A young man sells fresh fish from the waters of the bay.
The market is also for anyone who makes things at home, and you can buy lovely boiled wool slippers in stunning colors like dusty chartreuse and rich magenta, as well as artisan soaps and braided trivets for your tea cups. I found a mottled gourd birdhouse there, and I always come home with plants.
The vendors are mostly women in their 40s and 50s and they are a friendly bunch. I've noticed they all try to display their wares in baskets with lovely hand crafted signs. Aesthetics and merchandising are the rule here.
Saturday I picked up my CSA box, and bought flowers for my mother and for myself: End of summer flowers in bright hues.
When I was a very small child, my parents rented a flat in one of the last two old houses here. We had a small but sunny yellow kitchen that smelled of cinnamon, and a TV room with a balcony overlooking the water. Downtown bustled then, and I can recall the smell of freshly ground coffee from the A&P and fresh popcorn from the drugstore across the street. Both are gone now, and trendy gift shops have taken their place.
But my little town has a farm market, two in fact.
I'll visit the other market soon.