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		Two Farms Essays on a Maine Country Life By Janet Galle $15.95 Softcover, 143 pages ISBN: 0-9663663-3-6 Maine Nonfiction "[Life on a small farm is] the dream few people are brave enough to attempt but many think about in the dim hours before dawn and here is why. From a charmer on the real holiday meaning of the Fourth of July to the tale of a city cat this is a book to keep by your bed and dip in and out of if, you can discipline yourself to stop at one or two or maybe just one more.” – The Courier-Gazette "Two Farms is a carefully crafted tribute to good things that come from Maine’s threatened rural heritage.” – Maine Sunday Telegram

Two Farms is a visit to rural Maine, a place where you can still see the stars, savor the silence, and mark the seasons by the birth of a lamb or the arrival of snow on a “sugar-crystal January night.”

Janet Galle wrote a monthly nature column for a local newspaper that delighted readers for 17 years. Based on
her keen observations about the Maine woods, countryside and her family’s two farms—first a saltwater farm in
Brunswick and later Apple Creek Farm in Bowdoinham—her musings and anecdotes were a feast for those who
have experienced the delights of rural Maine or for those who dream of doing so. Two Farms is a collection of those
essays as well as new ones, covering such diverse topics as beloved pets and farm animals, child rearing, and nature’s impact and influence in our lives.

About the Author Janet Galle, a naturalist, farmer, shepherd, teacher and mother, grew up in Indiana and moved to mid-coast Maine in 1963 with her husband. She has lived on two farms, one in Brunswick and one in Bowdoinham and she has taught high school English for 18 years. She and her husband, Pete, still live on their Bowdoinham farm. Two Farms is her second book. She also co-authored Exploring Ecology.

From Two Farms:

“So—yesterday it was spring, almost summer even, with the creek running clear
and the earth ready to stretch its nose and sniff, and then today it is winter again,
with snow obliterating the world outside my window. The garden is hidden. The
raspberry bushes vanish under the drifts. This morning the bird house on the pole
is just a bereft stick in the snow. Yesterday it was waiting expectantly like a young
man in May.”