Last week, for the first time, I ventured into the North 40. Forty acres of property which is next to our house, which is somehow preserved, or reserved as some combination of private land, available for townspeople to use. They grow hay, and have a couple of horses, so we found out having walked down the grassy road, between two stone-walls, through the woods and up to the field where the horses were grazing. All of a sudden the idea of carefully closing the gate behind us seemed more important. It feels like a bit of pre-revolutionary war New England preserved.
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