I’ll call him Jake but that’s not his real name, a local farmer living six miles away, on the other side of a mountain that I had been gazing at incessantly throughout quarantine, watching the weather take its toll on that peak day in, day out. We had met each other a handful of times already in the previous five or ten years. Once to take my in-laws to an open farm day where we toured the grounds of his farm. Secondly, to buy half of one of his heritage breed pigs, which was so delicious that I don’t bother eating pork anymore, and again, when he was having trouble finding help for events that were taking place on his farm. He was hosting a Saturday summer al fresco pizza nights under the stars in 2016 and I offered my services for free making pizza and serving it to customers with a small group of his friends. Later, after dark, local restaurant owners would wearily gather for a chat and some leftovers once the last customer had gone home. I had met his wife once when Jake and she had been guests at a dinner party.
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