In Westport even the Farmers Market is manicured. Each booth a neat peaked tent in rows that look like some white medieval battlement, set on what is for the other days of the week the asphalt of a parking area. But each booth is a revelation. Not just the organic or almost organic produce, the home baked goods, the native caught fish, the local oysters (priced higher perhaps than the supermarkets), but here, under the squares of the tents, are the venders, Here to connect. “I am a farmer” they say, “I have raised these tomatoes. I use lady bugs, not chemicals.” But in this world of ours this is not easy; it requires a commitment to be there every Thursday for 4 hours and to make a living. To share these 4 hours to remind us once again that these eggplants thrust up from the well-tended (back breaking tended) rocky earth of New England. They didn’t sprout full grown in plastic parcels. A commitment not only to provide food, but a link to where we belong, even here in Westport.