A Farm Of His Own

The moon has just risen behind Mt. Abraham. Something is splashing around in the beaver pond--probably my dog, Beau. No, there he is, nosing around a brush pile, unfazed by the yipping of coyotes in the neighboring Green Mountain National Forest. It's 10:30 p.m., and I'm planting asparagus. Why 10:30? Why not? It's a starry September night in northern Vermont, I've got the headlights of my tractor to work by, and there's no one around to laugh at me.

To continue reading this article you must be a Bloomberg Professional Service Subscriber.