“Our great adventure ran out of petrol and stopped on this farm.”

“A farm is a business, and I ran mine into the ground. The next year it grew back.”

“At sixty miles per hour, you could pass our farm in a minute, on County Road 686, which ran due north into the T intersection at Cabot Street Road.”

“You came to tell us that the great cities are in favour of the gold standard; we reply that the great cities rest upon our broad and fertile plains. Burn down your cities and leave our farms, and your cities will spring up again as if by magic. But destroy out farms and the grass will grow in the city...You shall not press down upon the brow of labour this crown of thorns. You shall not crucify mankind upon a cross of gold.”

“On the farm, in our first-floor bedroom, my sister and I were sheltered in the essence of normal. We were not hidden, but unseen. The orange farmhouse was our castle, our kingdom the fields around, and the shallow creek that bisected our property the sea we crossed to find adventure.”

“When I first learned to drive and I bought petrol I went to great lengths to trickle the final drops into the petrol tank so it cost a round amount of money like £10. Now I try and spend £19.87 or £20.04 or some other amount that I hope will disturb the cashier’s sense of neatness and uniformity.”