The engines of summer
So I recently walked into the barn and counted the number of internal combustion engines thereby residing therein: eleven. How is this possible, you ask? Well, a man has certain needs, and these often revolve around the urge to cut, hew, chop, mow, and otherwise vanquish the greenery of Vermont. (Yes, I know I said “man.” Just let this one go, please—it’s a narrative thing.)