Farewell, Farmer's Market

I went to the Farmer's Market in Copley Square yesterday for the last time this year. The market closes on Tuesday, but I'll be away. Winter has arrived and I was bundled up in my shearling coat, hat, gloves, scarf, and boots. Many market vendors close down after the killing frost, when the choices narrow to root vegetables, cabbage, and apples. So just a few hardy farmers were setting up their stalls when I got there, shortly before 11. Selling can't legally begin until the stroke of 11, so I had to hang around. I went to my favorite apple stand, and saw a fellow with his hood pulled down over his forehead and a huge scarf wrapped around the rest of his face, except for his blue eyes.

"Is that you?" I said, realizing after I spoke just how stupid it sounded. I don't know the guys' names, although I've been buying fruit and nursery plants from that stand for years. I never learn: when I call people I know well, I invariably announce myself as, "It's me!" I know it's dumb, possibly even rude, but I can't help it. My friends and family must not know that many idiots because they always quickly figure out that it is, in fact, "me."

Anyway, the farmer was apparently cut from the same bolt of opaque cloth: "Yeah, it's me," he said. "But I wish it wasn't! I'm dyin' out here!"

Then he sold me some Galas and Empires. We wished each other happy holidays and said, "See you in the spring!"