Forty years of farming had a way of burning anxiety out of a person — when your livelihood depended on weather and soil and things entirely beyond your control, you learned early that worry was a tax on time you couldn’t afford. But this was different. This was Margaret’s world, and he was walking into it alone for the first time, without her at his elbow to translate.
He’d mentioned the visit to his friend Dale two weeks back over coffee at the diner on Route 9. “Just dress decent and don’t let them rush you,” Dale had said, wrapping both hands around his mug. “They see a farmer walk in and they look right through you. Happened to me twice at that place. Third time I wore my good boots and they at least made eye contact.”