In a dung-filled
barn, down a long gravel road just North of Springfield, stands a short, stocky
woman with light grey hair. She wears the traditional farmer’s uniform: boots,
gloves, overalls, brown Carhartt coat, a baseball cap bearing the phrase “barn
Goddess.” Suddenly, a faint, undistinguishable noise can be heard. The woman
quickly pulls an iPhone from her breast pocket.
“Bluebird Hills
Farm,” she answers.
This is Laurel
Shouvlin, and she’s not your typical farmer.
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