There is a thick haze in the air at 5:45 on a November morning in rural Pennsylvania. It’s a little misty, foggy and damp on the tail end of what has been a rainy month. For the most part it’s quiet on Reinford Farms, but only for a few minutes as some workers show up and begin their shifts. Bob, the herdsman, is already in the parlor taking notes about the farm’s milk intake.
Meanwhile, outside the milk house there is the faint sound of tires rolling up the driveway.
It’s an electric golf cart.
A golf cart?
Of course, because the farmer who runs the business end of the operation lives only about 300 yards away. It’s the farm where he, his brothers and sister grew up. The man pulls up dressed in overalls, a knit hat and hooded sweatshirt. It's still dark outside, so you can't really make out his face with a backdrop of beaming lights through the windows of the milking parlor.
He extends his hand and says, "Good morning. Welcome to Reinford Farms. I'm Brett."