This was going to be a story about a place. It was going to be about one small, green acre, but also about the world around Bent Barrow Farm: the halfway logged hills and the noisy wetlands, the slow moving trains and the scenic vista from which my mule, Fenway, once surprised me with three counties sprawled out under a most amazing sky. (I had never before realized what power lay in giving him his head!)
And then this looked in danger of becoming a story about Fenway, but also about how I am now that I know him, and who I am now that I live here. So maybe, after all, it is going to be a story about happiness.