Well, it’s here. Summer. I happened to be outside Alley’s late one afternoon and a visitor stopped by for a chat that I promise is not made up.

He said, “Is this the village of West Tisbury?” I said yes.

He said, “This is it, huh?” I said yes.

Then he said, “There’s, like, three buildings? And a gallery?” I laughed and said yes.

He asked whether there were any other villages around, so I sent him to Menemsha because the sun was near to setting and I wanted him to have a good time.

It made me think, though. And see our town differently, which is always a worthwhile practice.

The new library, where I have whiled away many a happy hour with my children, and where my children have spent many happy times without me. I dearly love that library, and all who govern its aisles.

The old library, where as a child I would curl up with books, enveloped in the unforgettable wonderful, funky smell that place had. One magical summer I took a poetry class with some lovely young woman whose name I can’t recall but who made words come alive and made us all feel like poets — and that has made all the difference.

The afternoons we whiled away in the insect-ticking grass back there, the adventures behind the town hall, the sun on the tops of our heads. Hanging out at Laurie Mazer’s house on the other side of the field, at her grandfather’s magical house with its hidden compartments. I didn’t know then that he’d written the seminal book about Island psychology but now that I do, I’m happy to imagine that a few motes of his wisdom might have sifted into us as we scrambled through his closets.

Then there was the Farmer’s Market at the Grange Hall, before Instagram, where my mother and I sold our homemade raisin bran muffins. Where, a decade later, I pressed wheatgrass juice with Jack Reed and we told everyone the juice was one chromosome away from human blood. Is that crazy? I’m not a scientist, I just remember crazy stuff.

Jack bought an orange juicer for his son, bought a bunch of oranges and let him squeeze fresh juice at the market all morning on Saturdays and keep the proceeds. I remember him saying, “The kid thinks it’s pure profit.”

Across the street at the Field Gallery, I always think about Chloe Maley — the daughter of the brilliant exuberant sculptor — and how when we were in kindergarten together I thought she looked just like Snow White.

And our Girl Scout troop sleepover behind the gallery, where we put little candles to float on the pond. That glow is still with me somewhere, when I need it.

Yes, a few buildings, a gallery; that’s all it is. How do we explain this town to a stranger? It’s a heartbreaking thing, a heavy thing, an impossible thing. We just have to hope that newcomers can learn to love a rooster’s cry at dawn, the sleepy girl at the counter, the flowers we might not have time to plant before the holidays. There is so much here, but you have to be patient. It can take a long time to see.

And hey! Don’t miss the Memorial Day Artisans Festival, 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. on May 28 and 29 at the Grange Hall. There will be fine furniture, art, clothing, sculpture, jewelry, ceramics and more.

Also, there’s a Farm Animal Meet & Greet at the Agricultural Hall on Saturday, June 4. There will be goats; there will be chickens; there will be amusement.

So, this town is hopping. This town is the center of the universe, so long as you’re in it.