The kind of quiet filled with the rhythmic chirps of small insects, lowing cows, and grass folding forward, sweeping past our knees.

We fill wooden baskets with squash: butternut, spaghetti, and long-necked yellow squash. “We have to hurry before the market opens.” We haul the bushels to the truck.

Dad takes out a long knife and hacks open a green-striped melon. He passes me a wedge about the size of my face. “Breakfast,” he says. I sink my teeth into the red, watery flesh. It’s sweet and full of flavor. “Come on,” he says, “we’ve got to go get tomatoes now.”

My dad is a small family farmer. He sells produce at the local farmers’ market in an area surrounded by miles and