Samuel Reed Kept an Old Wooden Bat Behind the Pantry Door for Twenty Years
The dinner crowd hadn’t started yet, but four local men sat around the counter drinking black coffee.
When we walked in, the conversation at the counter stopped.
Old Pete Higgins, who buys twelve tons of my late-summer clover hay every fall, looked right at me, then turned his back and picked up his sugar shaker.
The waitress brought two bowls of vegetable soup and set them down without asking how my pasture was holding up against the early frost.
“They think I did something wrong,” Claire said softly.
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