Farmer's Market, 6 a.m., Christmas Eve

It isn't Christmas unless you join the dawn throngs at the local Farmer's Market, where Andrew, the young man from the vegetable stand, puts your winesaps into a briskly snapped-open bag (while reporting on college), and the lady at the bread stands makes her most honest recommendations (Italian, she suggests, not French), and the purveyors of fish go into the back to retrieve the best of the long black mussels.  I arrived in the dark this morning.  When I opened the doors, the night sky was a brilliant purple pink, a color that would not allow itself to be photographed.

You just had to be there.