Every Saturday, starting in the spring and running through the fall, the local farmer’s market sets up along Main Street. Fresh vegetables, breads, cheeses, and honey line the street under large tents where the different farms set up. Each week a new assortment of local creations are piled high on flimsy tables and stands: the first peaches of the season, blueberries, cabbage, beets, zucchini, and peas. The fresh greenery dazzles my eyes.
Though it’s a struggle to rise at 8 am on a Saturday after a long week of work, I still manage, dreaming of the crisp sweet corn picked that very day.
Each Saturday is an adventure filled with strange new terminology–clingstone versus freestone peaches–that I had never known.
And the summer air. And the quiet drive. And the cool breeze, or humid breeze, or hot breeze, on my face.
My cat smells the difference between supermarket produce and farmer’s market produce and comes running when I pile the table high with the freshest of fresh local greens. He sniffs and bites and stalks, purring loudly as he moves.
Yesterday I used the zucchini bought at the market to make a moist zucchini bread. It’s a perfect morning match for coffee.
These things–the outside things, the local things–inspire the creator in me. The thing inside all writers that moves us to create and sometimes destroy. The fascination I have with swaying trees and dark nights and sharp grass, they all change my insides and make me tingle. Those are the nights I stay up late, unable to sleep because the creator is at work in me and I must loose it from my stomach onto the blank page.
That is summer. That is writing.