He sidled towards us, literally. That old, old man body, but sturdy. Farmer jeans fitted over boots, John Deere bronze belt clenching the denims just under the potbelly. His posture was locked, bent knees inwards, and locked, forward bent torso at the hips. But this man gives no clue to his caving body. His name is Bill, and he’s the one that donated all 270 acres of this farm to make it what it is. We asked him how he first met the founder here, and he said, “Well, it was just so. I knew this man was doin’ good, so I called ‘em up.” Quite modest on his past and present, our garden manager had to drag some “war” stories from gentleman Bill, who was also wearing a flannel shirt and Foxwoods hat and sayin’
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