Life at The Perry Farm
I am not going to complain that there are no mushrooms in our woods this year, or that I have given up at least eight hours looking when I could have been separating our puny lettuces and spinach from the feisty henbit and chickweed that think the garden is theirs. I have no regrets about... Continue Reading →
Our autumn meadow isn't much to look at from a distance: It is a tangle of grass and weeds, much of it brittle and wind fallen. It is not a meadow of romance, full of silky, waist-high grass. In fact, if Keith and I started on opposite ends and ran toward one another, we'd trip in... Continue Reading →
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 →
M. H. Perry 