Life at The Perry Farm
We own a woods, a hundred acres of white oaks, hard maples, hickory, and beech trees. We own it thanks to Keith's mother, who grew up on an adjacent farmstead, bought by her German grandparents with money they saved from working the New England textile mills. We are lucky to own this woods: It is a... Continue Reading →
At least once a week, I walk the farm. Correct that. I police the farm. This is a big, out-of-the-way place, after all. Trespassers could be camped in the woods, cooking meth in the ravine, growing weed in the sunny corridor between us and the state line, and we’d never know. So I scout the... Continue Reading →
We have an apple orchard. Actually, it has us. Two dozen Braeburn, Gala, Granny Smith, and Mutsu trees that we never have time to take care of properly fend for themselves, and we drop by in September to pick or pick up our share. With a family and town jobs and a garden and a... Continue Reading →
M. H. Perry 