We lived on a dirt road, on a 50-acre New England farm. The kind where the snow plow never comes. Traffic was so rare that when a vehicle went by everybody came to the doorway to watch. Occasionally some city slicker, looking for the game preserve which abutted our acreage, would sneer at us country bumpkins. My mother, a scholar and an aesthese, would just shrug and laugh at their prejudices. In hunting season, I was very careful about riding around my property. Though the boundaries were posted, ignorant/aggressive hunters would occasionally take a potshot in my direction. Once, I lost my temper, and went after them, as fast as my horse could go, Valkyrie-style. Scared the living daylights out of them.
aesthete, not asthese
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