Author, Vermonter, Amateur Human
Saturday, Oct. 25, 1986 “Oh my god! You’re not actually wearing that thing inside are you?” The tail lights of Mom and Dad’s car were barely out of sight, and it was already happening. I didn’t need to look to see who owned the shrill voice, but I did anyway. Half-blind from the eye holes …
Sitting in the cab of the TW-10 Ford tractor, I cranked the volume on the radio to hear it over the sound of the machinery running behind me, churning out freshly chopped grass. I was just in time to hear Jack Barry introduce his guest for the next segment. He was an author. But not …
If you’ve ever had to unload a wagon full of freshly chopped grass into a concrete haylage bunker, you know there’s a trick to it. To get a decent row of wet, green grass fed out along the open front of the bunker, you need to maneuver the tractor and the wagon behind it back …
My dog bit me this morning. Well, “bit” is a little overdramatic. Sally nipped me. Being a pekingese, she can only fit so much finger in her tiny mouth. Combine that with getting roused from a sound sleep, it ended up being a clumsy and largely ineffective attempt at self defense. A couple of worn …
