The Waverly farmers market pops up like a mushroom once a week in a parking lot across the street from the library, evaporates at the stroke of noon and appears again seven days later, 52 weeks a year. It is part of my usual Saturday morning ritual.

On this day, it’s an end-of-summer riot in a concrete oasis of sound, color and smell. Serious shoppers dart between casual browsers, babies in strollers take their parents for a spin, pierced and inked kids work their way toward the coffee stand, and romantic young couples try not to trip over others as they gaze into their beloved’s eyes.

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