We entered the old town of Newfane early in the morning when traces of fresh dew were still visible. The landscape was hilly and thick with trees. It seemed as though we were just winding through the woods without any reasonable destination until the narrow, pock-marked pavement yielded a small rise in the terrain. We found ourselves on a small hill at the entrance to the town. We slowed to a near halt to savor the view when I happened to see an elderly gentleman seated on a makeshift stool in front of an old clapboard shack. He had a long white beard, and was pealing potatoes; he never looked up. We stopped the car, and the three of us slowly approached the quiet old man.
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