On a chilly morning in Woodstock, New York, frozen dew turns lawns a glistening white as puffs of smoke from chimneys float across the road.
“Winter is here,” declares the woodsman, a broad-shouldered man in a black-and-gray checked wool shirt and navy denim Carhartt overalls as he sharpens his orange chainsaw. Hanging from his neck is a medallion that reads “St Christopher protect us”– a gift from a red-carpet-level comedian who once collaborated with him on a theater project.
