The Rural Diaries

by Hilarie Burton

  My number one priority was a garden. In high school I’d tried tending a garden but had failed because I was set on weird things and I didn’t care whether they were meant to be grown in Virginia or South America. I was finally adult enough to realize I should probably look up what grows well where I was living. I spent the whole winter obsessively hunched over my pad of graph paper figuring out what was going to go where, looking up Native American ways of planting. I wanted to feel the ceremony of working with the earth and practice firsthand what I’d only read about in college. There’s a method of companion planting called the three sisters where you plant corn, squash, and beans together and they hold each other up. I kept a pile of inspiringly illustrated gardening books that I bought at Oblong Books & Music. I would go in there once a week and chat with whatever lovely person was at the counter, and they’d walk me over to the local section and pull out whatever I needed.

  Once I’d plotted the garden, I moved on to alpacas. Yep, you read that right. In a million years I never would have guessed that we’d be alpaca farmers, but here we were. The horses all got sent to live on the neighboring farms of Sunny’s friends and fellow breeders, but she knew it was going to be difficult to board her three alpacas (and one llama). “How would you feel about boarding them for me?” she asked.

  There’s a scene in the Barbra Streisand movie Funny Girl where her character is desperately trying to make it in the vaudeville circuit. After consistent rejection, someone at the theater asks her, “Can you roller skate?” And she responds with all the bravado in the world, “Can I roller skate!” In the next scene we see her bust her ass over and over, toppling all the other showgirls around her, but that isn’t what matters! She was onstage. She was doing it. Failure be damned, she was living the dream. When Sunny asked whether I’d take the alpacas, that scene came rushing back to me. (Side note: That scene is how I approach 99 percent of my life. Motherhood. Home renovations. Cooking dinner. You just gotta go in thinking, “Of course I can do this!”)

  “Yes. Of course. I’d love to. I can totally handle that.” Followed by a frantic “Hey Jeff, we’re good taking the alpacas, yeah?”

  He was pumped. It was like getting a turnkey farm. I would be able to learn with animals that were already comfortable in their home and their routine. Sunny walked me through how to give them their deworming shots once a month, and I went to school on alpacas. I learned that, thankfully, they are the least-high-maintenance animals on the planet. They just nibble the tops of grass, like lanky, fluffy, roving lawnmowers. Goats and sheep look very cute, but they can destroy pastureland because they eat grass by pulling it up from the roots. And they have hooves, which tear up everything. The ever-accommodating alpacas and llama don’t have hooves; they have padded feet like dogs so they don’t tear the grass. You know what’s even cooler? They don’t poop all over the pasture; they have a “communal pile,” where they do their business. Honestly, if I needed to choose a barnyard animal to be my roommate in college, the alpaca would win, hands down.

  This was getting exciting.

  It was a no-brainer that our dream farm included chickens. In all the fancy-pants grocery stores I had ever gone to, brown eggs were always the top of the egg hierarchy. Words like “free range” and “organic” made me feel like I wasn’t just paying more for eggs; I was pitching in to ensure a beautiful life for those hardworking lady birds. So when Sunny explained that her birds laid Easter-colored eggs, I was awestruck. That was a real thing? I learned that different chicken breeds lay different-colored eggs, and the color of the egg is largely dependent on what color the chicken’s feet are. If you have a bird that has darker colored feathers and orange feet, it will lay brown eggs. There are chickens that have blue feet, and they lay blue eggs; and the green-footed ones lay green eggs.

  Gardening Gloves Are for Sissies

  My mother always had a beautiful garden while we were growing up. Gardening seemed to come naturally to her. I took it for granted that she knew exactly how to plant things so that something would be blooming from spring to fall. (Now I know just how difficult all that planning is!) Her vegetables were orderly. Her flowers were tallest in the back and daintiest up front. Her garden always looked like something out of Better Homes and Gardens.

  We grew all kinds of things—corn, cucumbers, strawberries, tomatoes, and snow peas. My younger brother John would hunch down by the bushes of beans, popping them in his mouth. We thought nothing of wandering barefoot into Mom’s lovely little corner of the world, grabbing at tomatoes and whatever else was ripe with one hand while holding on to the long green hose with the other, fighting over turns at drinking that delicious metallic water. She was a good sport about it. At least it meant she wouldn’t have to fix us lunch.

  Here are a few tricks I’ve learned to help my garden grow:

  To get rid of slugs, break up your eggshells and place the shards in a ring around your plants. To slugs, it’s like crawling across broken glass.

  Put marigolds around vegetable plants to keep away pests such as destructive insects and wild rabbits. When the flowers dry out, harvest the seeds by plucking the flower head and placing it in a paper bag, where it can dry completely. These make great gifts for teachers and friends. We call them Mischief Farm Marigolds.

  I always refuse to thin out carrots. You’re supposed to thin them out so they grow long and thin and deep. But at Mischief Farm, we get twisty carrots that look like monsters. I’m not sure whether that’s a tip or a failure, but either way, we love the carrot creatures we grow each year, and I wouldn’t do it any other way. Give it a try!

  If birds or dogs or wild animals are digging up your garden, pick up a bunch of cayenne pepper. My grocery store carries big containers in the international food aisle. Sprinkle pepper all over the dirt. It won’t hurt the plants and it won’t hurt the animals, but they’ll think twice about digging in your garden.

  I learned the importance of rotating crops from my mom. Every year or so, her farming relatives in Iowa would flip-flop the corn and soybean fields so as not to overtax the soil nutrients. When my mother visited, she and other kids would be assigned the chore of “walking the beans,” which meant walking along the bean rows to make sure no corn was popping up. She made it sound like the coolest task a kid could do. On a much smaller scale we practice the same thing in our garden, rotating the crops every year so that each plant gets the nutrients it needs and the soil can replenish itself.

  * * *

  Sunny took her chickens and turkey with her to Westchester, and we planned on getting our own chicks from the feed store in the spring. But after a week in Westchester, a military-like attack from the local raccoons saw the chickens’ numbers dwindle. Sunny texted, Hilarie, I can’t keep the chickens here. Do you guys want them?

  Yes. So much yes.

  * * *

  One toddler, two dogs, three alpacas, one llama, seventeen chickens, and a seventy-acre farm seemed like a lot. We were also carrying three mortgages, which was daunting, and Jeff didn’t want to give up our magical cabin. He insisted on keeping it, as impractical as that was. “There aren’t a lot of woods at the farm,” he’d reason. “I need to be able to come back and chop firewood.” Uh huh. He just had his grownup playhouse that he had always wanted. It was too magical to give up, so we started letting friends from the city come up and use it. Time and time again, everyone commented on how much love was in that tiny log hideout.

  That left the LA house. Jeff made a casual call to his agent in California, asked her what she thought the house might be worth, and told her to let us know if she knew of anyone who was interested. The house didn’t sit on the market. After the first brokers’ open house, offers flooded in. We were a bit shocked at the speed of everything, but thankfully Nick, who had been housesitting for us, helped us deal with the real estate agent; gave tours of the home to buyers, using his theatrical flair to really sell the place; oversaw repairs; and packed up most of our belongings. When I flew in, he helped m
e settle the last lot of stuff.

  I was unexpectedly weepy saying goodbye to that house. The bar where Jeff and I had flirted and traded numbers. The corner where the Christmas tree had stood when he proposed. The pool where Gus had learned to swim. The office where I had labored. The nail holes where the deer head had once hung. Shit, this was sad! Nick and I were about to get in the car when I ran to the backyard and picked every lemon off the tree.

  As I was clambering into the car, one of the neighbors I had met multiple times came outside and said, “Oh, hi. Are you two the new neighbors?”

  Never mind. I couldn’t get back to the cabin fast enough.

  * * *

  In Rhinebeck the weather was changing. We had just spent Thanksgiving at the Rudds’ house with Julie’s dad, who spoiled the kids with little gifts and played on the floor with them. The Saturday after, I woke up to a carpet of frost around the cabin. Gus and I dehydrated lemon wedges in the oven, covered them in Mod Podge, and made a lemon garland that we strung on our Christmas tree.

  That night, Jeff, Gus, and I bundled up and went into town for the Sinterklaas festival. I had ordered gift boxes of candy for all the people we work with, and so we stopped by Samuel’s to settle up. Ira had meticulously made perfect packages. The shop twinkled with white Christmas lights, and garland ran along the high shelves that displayed Ira’s artifacts—tin soldiers, vintage lunchboxes, birdhouses made by talented locals. A huge old stereo from the early 1990s took up an obscene amount of space on top of the milk cooler behind the register. Elvis and Bing and Burl Ives all crooned. People were crammed into every nook of the store, buying gifts and something warm to drink.

  “Hiya handsome,” I called out to Ira.

  “Boxes are sent, doll! Jeff, I saw your wife kissing Tyler Hilton!” Ira teased me about the promos for my latest holiday movie. He was obsessed with Christmas and never missed one of my movies.

  “That kid’s a prince,” Jeff responded. “I’d kiss him too.”

  “How are you holding up?” I asked him, the madness of the store causing us to shout a bit.

  “Exhausted! Packed a hundred mail-order boxes last night, slept for an hour, and then came back here for the Teddy Bear Beauty Pageant.” Ira held up his own rust-colored bear that had been camped out by the register. Ira’s Teddy Bear Beauty Pageant was legendary. All the children in town would doll up their bears in costumes made from old baby clothes, discarded Halloween accessories, paper towel rolls, and Mardi Gras beads. Ira bestowed a special title on each one of them. “I pronounce this the Rock ’n Roll Gladiator Bear!” or “Let’s hear it for the Sugar Plum Princess Bear!” Then each kid was gifted a shiny foil-wrapped chocolate bear for their efforts. “Gus! You gonna come dress up a bear for me next year?” Gus feigned shyness and buried his head in my legs.

  I handed Ira a little box. I’d been doing my Christmas shopping at Paper Trail, my favorite stationery store in Rhinebeck, and I’d found a gorgeous glass fox ornament, dusted in snowy crystals. The raised eyebrows of the creature reminded me of my mischievous friend. Handing it over to him, I watched as Ira read the card: “To Ira, You’re a Stone Fox! So grateful for you and your friendship.” He cocked a clever eyebrow and held up the glass fox. Then he went back into the storage room and pulled out a box wrapped in shiny silver paper. Gus tore the giftwrap and found a collection of Dr. Seuss books, his first, and threw his arms around Ira’s legs.

  I grabbed Ira and kissed his face, and then he was pulled back into the fray of hot chocolate and candy canes.

  A few doors down, at Pete’s Diner, we delivered a gift to Connie. For someone with such a gruff front, she is wonderfully kindhearted. She gives us a Christmas card every year, knits us scarves, remembers every birthday, and every time she goes on vacation in Maine, she brings me back a calendar.

  Then we headed to Osaka, the sushi restaurant in town, to grab a bite with Andy, Phoebe, and the Rudds before the festival began. The waitress, Sarah, knows what food and drink all of our kids prefer. She knows what special Jeff wants to order before he even asks for it. She is maternal and wonderful and has fed my boys dinner multiple nights in a row whenever I’ve been off working in the city. Jass and her husband, John, who run the restaurant with Jass’s parents, came out to greet us and wish us a happy Sinterklaas.

  As it started to get dark, the street filled up and we all headed over to Samuel’s, where Ira ushered us up onto his bench. The sea of people moved this way and that as each new float and group of performers and huge puppet display moved down the street.

  This was Gus’s first year in preschool, and when he looked up and saw Ms. Patty in her crazy costume—part Joseph’s amazing Technicolor dream coat and part a costume from The Wiz—well, you would have thought he’d spotted Elvis. From atop Jeff’s shoulders he clapped his hands and screeched, “Ms. Patty! Ms. Patty!” and when she turned in our direction, I thought he might faint from the excitement.

  After the parade the town tree stood lit up in the municipal parking lot, a gathering place for locals. Gus ran into some kids from school, and he was so excited to be with his people, rather than folks mom and dad were introducing him to.

  A few days later I was curled up on the couch in front of the fire at the cabin. Ira emailed me after he had rewatched my latest holiday movie. It was lovely and warm and totally Ira. He wrote that it was “fantastic watching you knowing I get a hug next time I see you.” Ira knew he got me in real life, and that was the truth. He signed it, “Big hugs & kisses right back at you.” Reading it, I grinned.

  * * *

  The New Year kicked off our new adventure at Mischief Farm. And naturally, not a damn thing went according to plan. Except the Seahawks winning the Super Bowl. That alone saved our sanity.

  Since we had sold the house in LA, we had everything in storage containers that were being delivered to the farm in late January, so once I got the keys to the place, I dropped Gus off at school every day and raced over to maniacally paint the new house. I ferried stuff from the cabin to the farmhouse, made sure we had food for the animals Sunny was leaving with us, and found a man with a snow plow to put on speed dial.

  I was fretting about how California movers were going to navigate the arctic conditions. In January everything is frozen hard in the Hudson River Valley, and at the cabin there is always eight feet of snow.

  But the day before the movers came, we had a warm spell and all of the ice and snow melted. I arrived early at the farm to unlock the house and realized I had to move my Suburban to make way for the two massive tractor trailers that were lingering at the end of the driveway. Jeffrey had told me that the driveway went past the house and back down toward the woods, then looped around, so I figured I could loop around down there and be out of the way. I drove down the fairly steep hill, and the Suburban started to wiggle from side to side. The whole hill was a layer of slick, deep mud. There was no way to turn around. Okay, I told myself, I’m just going to keep going. Problem was, I hadn’t walked the perimeter of the property since that first tour at the brokers’ open, so I seriously underestimated just how far I had to go. All of a sudden I was up to my eyeballs in mud.

  The only way to get the Suburban out of the low-lying wetland was to try to drive it around the perimeter of the entire farm between the fencing and the tree line, which was maybe seven feet at its widest. All the frost had melted, and the ground was slicker than pig shit. I was painfully careful as I drove, white knuckles on the wheel. Every breath was a prayer. I hadn’t hit a fence or bumped a tree yet, but I was leaving huge, ugly tire marks all over our brand-new farm. “Tire marks” might be too kind; really, I was tearing knee-deep trenches into the earth.

  Finally, the barn appeared in the distance. I’d done it. Almost. I’d driven three-quarters of the way around the farm, but the final hill was taunting me. I’d move up a few feet, back tires swaying from side to side, and then I’d slip back, wheels spinning, sending sprays of mud into the air. There was nothing I could do to get u
p that last hundred yards that remained.

  On Manure

  Alpacas are beautiful, thoughtful animals. With their big eyes and minky long lashes, they are the J.Lo of animals, the perfect mixture of aloof and alluring. Also, their shit is pretty much the gold standard of manure, so I hoard it and dole it out sparingly for garden beds.

  Great manure is farm science. When I was growing up, my family started getting horse manure from one of my dad’s sisters. That stuff burns your plants and the roots unless it cures for more than six months. Horses have only one stomach chamber, so the waste isn’t as broken down as in ruminants, such as cows, that have stomachs with four compartments. The seeds of unwanted weeds can pass through a horse entirely intact.

  Then there’s cow manure. Cows’ gut bacteria is actually good for your garden, but it releases nutrients at a pretty slow pace and is lower on the nitrogen-phosphoric acid-potash scale that poop is judged on. That was my fertilizer of choice at my haunted house in North Carolina, where I’d load my 1986 gold Mercedes with as many bags of Black Gold Compost from Home Depot as the trunk could handle.

  Alpacas have three stomach chambers—the magic number—and so by the time the manure comes out, it has been so processed that it contains no riff-raff seeds and is still high in nutrients. Their poop is just teeny little pellets that dry out, so they’re lightweight and odor free. The crème de la crème. I daydream about my next career: Manure Sommelier.

  * * *

  I scrambled out of the car and squelched my way to the barn. Sunny had encouraged us to keep on her groundskeeper, an intensely hardworking and private man (who would prefer to remain nameless, so I’ll just call him Awesome). This is the man who according to legend removed briars of wild rose bushes from the entire property with just hand tools. He was tough and quiet, and I was looking forward to working with him and learning a thing or two. And now here I was destroying the beautiful paths he’d created and getting stuck in the mud before we’d moved a single box inside.