There may be a stronger sense of purpose, a drive to overcome any obstacle, an unshakeable emotional center. The effect on those who live with that contract can be profound. In all that quiet beauty, I could not help pondering the delicate, sometimes brutal, sometimes violent contract made between the farmer and nature. Under the cerulean blue of the sky, with clouds like cotton pulled apart, floating in tufts, there were no people in evidence. Aside from varying road traffic, there was a solitude, an isolation in the landscape. I was passing through farmland, marvelling at the quiet beauty of corn rows, of the silos that peeked out from beyond them, and the stately, weathered white of the homes and barns. On either side, the stately procession of Queen Anne’s lace swayed as I rushed past. I was driving home from the 2010 Falcon Ridge Folk Festival, the two-lane blacktop of Route 22 South stretching out in front of me.
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