This is one of our local farm stands. I shot this photo as an afterthought, really, just because my camera happened to be handy and I liked the scene with it's near vintage truck and brown shingled barn and table of bright zinnias. But when I look at it now, I see more than the sum of it's parts. I see a way of life that clings precariously to the edges of my rapidly changing community.
When I was growing up, the roadsides were filled with joe pye weed, and sunflowers and chicory and queen anne's lace. Now they are curbed and manicured.
Neighbors planted gardens, with vegetables and a few cutting flowers, and left the occasional gift (usually a giant zucchini) on your doorstep.
Farms like this one dotted the landscape. They were not always beautiful in the strictest sense of the word, but they were utilitarian. And their beauty sprang from a sense of purpose and rightness.
Now they are few and far between, and seem to perch uneasily amid all the McMansions that have been built here in the past few years. I didn't always fully understand the observation that "you can't go home again." But it is beginning to sink in. I have never left home but even so, it has changed around me. And it is a sad realization.