Confessions of a Counterfeit Farm Girl

by Susan McCorkindale

  But I digress.

  Besides caring for, bathing, and occasionally being forced to play Francesco Scavullo to our bevy of bantams, I think one of the things about country life that really gives me a kick is that it’s kind of like being in one of those old Hertz Rent-a-Car commercials. Will the electrician call you back? Not exactly. Will the power company show up at the agreed-upon time? Not exactly. Will the dozen or so weather outlets make the same or even similar predictions? Not exactly.

  To try to stay on top of whatever weather is coming our way, we augment our TV and radio news with several Internet weather-alert services and a weather radio. The weather radio is a small, satanic device that delights in announcing loudly that “FOG WAS REPORTED” during the depths of our REM sleep. It would be one thing if it alerted us to an oncoming tornado or flood or even frogs falling from the sky. But to wake me up in a fog to tell me about fog makes me want to beat the fogging thing with a hammer.

  In any case, even with the weather radio and the nine other self-proclaimed storm-watch sources at our disposal, including “Grizzly Bob” at our local livestock exchange, who claims to be half man, half barometer, we still wonder . . . will we get three inches of snow? Not exactly. Will we get thirty inches of snow? Not exactly. Will we know before it arrives? Definitely, absolutely, not exactly.

  The other thing I love about country living is that we have to go to the post office to get our mail. I mosey on over; shoot the breeze with the postmaster; collect our catalogs, letters, bills, and magazines; and promptly toss two-thirds of it in the huge trash basket tucked in the corner. I’d love to throw out the Amex statement, but I’ll have to satisfy myself with something more expendable. Like the new issue of Backyard Poultry. It should arrive any day, and there’s no way it’s coming home to this house. I just don’t give a cluck.

  Chapter Seventeen

  HOLIDAYS ON CHARDONNAY

  Yesterday I had a local hair salon get rid of the roots running rampant on my head and match my natural color. What a mistake. Who knew Redken made Tree Bark Brown? The real name is something like Medium Blonde, but that’s just to cushion the blow. There’s nothing medium about it. No matter how I brush it, comb it, or clip it, it’s still brown. Quick, somebody pass the peroxide.

  Bet you’re eager to know how my new bathroom locks are working out, aren’t you? Does the fact that I’m writing this from the comfort of my rooster-,pig-, and cow-clad loo answer that question? I thought so.

  Don’t worry, I haven’t been spending all of my time locked away in a long-overdue solo bubble bath. I’ve actually been Christmas shopping and while doing so—shock of shocks—fending off the advances of amorous strange men. Why in my old age am I suddenly so appealing? Blame it on The Simpsons. Seems if I pick up anything to do with the Fox network’s stalwart—from Bart-emblazoned boxer shorts to Homer’s HAPPY D’OH!LIDAYS ornaments—men materialize out of nowhere. During a recent stroll around Kohl’s one asked me to join him for coffee, and a second trailed me through Target and proffered lunch. I admit I had to seriously consider that proposition, as it was almost eleven and I had a bad case of the midmorning munchies, but I stopped myself. After all, I’m a married woman and I know what men really want. And nobody, but nobody, is taking off with the set of Moe Sizlak beer mugs I got my hands on for Hemingway.

  Speaking of the holidays, our first Halloween here in the hinterland was particularly frightening. Why? Because there’s nowhere around here for the kids to trick-or-treat. Sure, we have “neighbors,” but it would take the boys half an hour just to get to the entrance of their farm, and a GPS system to find their house. By then they’d deserve way more than a Butterfinger,94 so trick-or-treating up and down Rokeby Road is not an option.

  At first I considered driving them to a neighborhood I don’t know (now, that would be scary), or taking them to what’s called a truck-or-treating event. From what I’ve been told, churches set these up in their parking lots for kids who live on farms. Parents come and park their pickups in a circle, and the kids simply trick-or-treat from one truck to the next. I was concerned we needed to be a member of the church whose truck-or-treating crush we crashed, but was assured that everyone—even us heathens—is welcome on Halloween.95

  The other option was to take the boys to my sweet sister-in-law’s in McLean, where they could trick, treat, and torment the spectacularly affluent. Frankly I really wanted to watch them demand sugar-coated confections from the likes of Ethel Kennedy and Alma Powell, but as Hemingway was certain it would get Nancy banned from bunko, we nixed it.

  Ultimately we took the boys to what we learned is the Halloween hotspot in this neck of the woods: Mountain-view Avenue in Marshall.

  Marshall is a lovely, laid-back country community of pretty homes with wraparound porches; manicured lawns and lush flower beds; brightly colored swing sets; big, happy dogs; and folks wearing Washington Redskins jerseys from August through January. Imagine their joy at seeing our mini version of Michael Strahan, aka Cuyler, decked out in his blue-and-white Giants uniform, demanding a treat the day after the Giants tricked the Redskins 36-0. There were some tense moments, but each time it threatened to get ugly, Hemingway smiled and quipped, “We figured this was the scariest thing we could do to you ’Skins fans,” and all was well. But to be honest, I’m still checking the kid’s candy.

  Ah yes, the candy. The tons of candy. Why do they bring it home and then leave it where poor, defenseless, self-control-free, Dirty Bathwater (I mean Medium) Blonde moms can eat it? I swear, even from the safety of my bed, with my pillow over my ears, I can hear the fun-size Snickers bars and little bags of candy corn crying, “Hey, you with the mousy hair and the hot flashes: You know you want us. . . .”

  What I truly want is for my kids to have a full week of school. Right after Halloween the weather snapped, and the five-day school week went out the window. I’ve never seen anything like it. If snow is predicted for anywhere across the continental United States, the schools in Fauquier County close.96 And if it actually snows here, be it a blizzard or just a light dusting that melts by midmorning, you can bet school will be scrapped for at least two days. The problem isn’t the schools; it’s the roads. The straight and level ones are just fine, but those that twist and turn and jump up and down like a cardiogram—the locals call them rolling hills because they can roll your car right onto its roof—present a problem. There’s something about a schoolbus full of kids careening down an icy mountain road that makes the locals err on the side of caution.

  Now, I know of moms who love snow days. Women who at the sight of the first flake rush to their special cabinet for their box of craft supplies and index cards full of ideas for Popsicle-stick villages and painted sock puppets, macramé pot holders and milk-carton gingerbread houses. But I’m not on a first-name basis with any of these freaks.

  No, when I awaken to a “local” weather report predicting snow in Anchorage, and my Board of Ed Web site confirms what I already know in my heart—that my kids will be home with me instead of at school with adults whose college diplomas declare their ability to deal with them—I, too, rush to my special cabinet. My liquor cabinet.

  In it, tucked way in the back behind several unopened bottles of Baileys Irish Cream, a fifth of anisette, and a gallon container of margarita mix, I keep what I lovingly refer to as Mommy’s Snow Day Survival Kit.

  Included in this tried-and-true trauma toolbox are industrial-strength earplugs (like the kind jack-hammering construction workers and rock band roadies swear by), several splits of chardonnay (the good stuff; if I’m stuck taking the kids’ crap all day, I’m not drinking it, too), a supply of dry ice to keep the good stuff good and cold, paper cups so I can cave in to inebriation when I take a “Mommy needs to look for something in the car/truck/tractor” sanity break, and a vial of Valium.

  OK, I’m just kidding about the Valium. I don’t really take it. Instead I take two Tylenol PM. In the a.m. It freaks the kids out when I fall asleep while breaking up t
heir fourteenth fistfight. They think I’m dying, flash on the fact that Hemingway never buys cookies when he shops, and immediately begin to behave. So what if they spend their adult years in therapy? I’ll save them a corner on the couch.

  When we lived in Ridgewood it was usually well into January before I had to break out my Snow Day Survival Kit. I guess I’m a bit surprised at needing it in December, but I’m even more surprised that it is December. What happened to August?

  If I let him live through the snow day we’re currently enduring, in less than a week Cuyler turns seven. And in a little more than two weeks we’d all better have our shopping done, gifts wrapped, cards mailed, houses aglow, trees decorated, and pantries and bars stocked for making merry. Or else. Or else what, I’m not sure. Though I think it has something to do with having our Hanukkah bushes set ablaze, our Christmas trees toppled, and reindeer doo-doo dropped down our chimneys. At least that’s what I heard.

  I guess fear of having my Christmas tree toppled—or of not having a Christmas tree to topple—is what finally motivated me to get with the season.

  For starters, I dug out my holiday music cassettes, the very ones Hemingway hates with a passion he usually reserves for green peas and women wearing Capri pants, and popped one into Casey’s tape player—the one he hasn’t used since the great CD stampede. Then, while grooving to the beat of Bob Seger’s “Sock It to Me Santa,” I retrieved the outside lights from among the two-dozen crushed and cat hair-covered boxes in the basement labeled CHRISTMAS, and attempted to hang them on the porch.

  What a fiasco. I was freezing. The lights were tangled. Two strands lit. Two strands didn’t. My fingers went numb. Frostbite started to set in. And I began to wonder: Isn’t this what I have a husband for?

  I was seriously contemplating skipping the entire holiday season by tapping into my supply of Tylenol PM and sleeping from Christmas Eve through New Year’s Day, when suddenly Casey and Cuyler came home, saw the lights, and whooped for joy. It was all worthwhile, despite my bleeding fingertips and the thin rivulets of blood frozen along the porch railing.

  Unfortunately things rapidly returned to normal when they pointed out that I’d missed a spot, so I pointed out that Santa would surely miss the house if they weren’t careful. When I came in, they wisely made amends by making me a nice snack of hot cocoa and cookies, so I imagine Santa will be stopping here after all. He can just follow the path of blood and broken fingernails I left behind.

  Of course if the porch lights were a pain97 they were nothing compared to getting a tree.

  At first we considered buying a live tree and planting it in our front yard after the holidays to commemorate our first Christmas on the farm. This idea lasted a full five minutes during a trip to our local nursery. There we learned that a live tree would cost close to four hundred smackers, require a crane to lift, and survive a total of three days in the living room before needing to be manhandled into a mammoth hole specially prepared for it in the frozen earth (and kept free of any additional snow blowing in from Anchorage). All this, and the fact that there was no guarantee it would grow once it was in the ground, just made it that much more attractive.

  Convinced the four hundred bucks would be better spent by burning it, we quickly determined that the traditional seasonal purchase of a dead tree would do just fine. But should we cut one down ourselves and have our pick of the best blue spruce, Fraser fir, or Scotch pine in the forest, or buy one at the local Boy Scout sale?

  Still riding the weird wave of “Rah rah, we’re country rookies” enthusiasm that led us to want a live tree, we decided to go the cut-your-own route. We quickly drove to the nearest tree farm, and just as quickly realized we didn’t know what we were doing, as evidenced by the fact that we didn’t bring a chain saw, hand saw, or even a large pocket knife. Of course we did bring our own human measuring stick: Casey. We dragged the poor kid to four different tree farms, looking desperately for a tree at least as tall as our six-foot son, but never found one.98

  As it turns out, folks around here hit the tree farms in droves the day after Thanksgiving. They snatch up the ten-footers and leave the Charlie Brown pickings for those who refuse to rush the holiday season, and others who are seriously considering Rip Van Winkling their way through it. How they keep the trees green and fresh for a full month is still a mystery to me. I mean, is there some way to pickle a pine?

  Ultimately we gave the Boy Scouts our business. For fifty-five dollars we got a perfectly proportioned, six-foot-tall Fraser fir. The fact that it shed so many needles during decoration that it was like trying to put Christmas lights on a leper doesn’t make it any less lovely.

  Right this instant, we’re all managing to get through another snow day. Hemingway’s glued to a German film called The Tunnel, which he’s watching with English subtitles, so why the kids have to “keep it down!” I have no idea. Casey and Cuyler have consumed every sugar and carbohydrate in the house and are attempting to put snow pants on our small dog, Pete. And I’m sitting at my laptop, sipping a cup of the new green tea I’m writing an ad for and realizing the stress-relieving qualities it claims pale in comparison to its ability to produce indigestion. Like I can’t get enough of that from my family.

  I think what I despise most about snow days is that, without fail, they happen when I have plans. Plans to meet my sister-in-law for a civilized lunch. Plans to do a little shopping. Plans to have my tree-bark-brown hair color replaced with something in the blond family. I swear Mother Nature looks down at my Day Runner and says, “Susan’s Tuesday is booked solid. Let it snow!”

  The other thing that drives me nuts about snow days is that frankly, I can predict them. Forget the discombobulated television divas, the weather radio, and the online storm-watch services. When I discover at ten o’clock at night that we’re completely and utterly out of milk, bread, J. Lohr and La Crema,99 it’s pretty much a done deal that the kids will be home the next day. Really. I’d issue my own alert, but I don’t want to step on any toes at the school board.

  With any luck, the kids will soon return to school and life will return to normal. The ice will melt, the snow will take a walk until next winter, and I’ll get to keep my appointment for a full highlight. Good-bye, Medium Blonde abomination. Hello, Porn Star Platinum. I can’t wait, and nothing is going to keep me from the salon. Not even a snow day. If I have to, I’ll bring the kids. Or maybe they’ll nap. I’ve got a couple of extra Tylenol PM they can take.

  Hemingway’s Christmas List

  Hemingway has two kids. I have three. How else can I explain the fact that every year he writes a Christmas wish list and leaves it for me in the kitchen? At least Casey and Cuyler are smart enough to put their lists in my makeup case or near my moisturizers. That stuff I use. (Let’s face it: The only reason we have a kitchen is because it came with the house.) Anyway, this year’s requests and last year’s are as different as night and day, black and white, sticks and suburbia. I’d show you mine (last year I asked for Manolos; this year I’d need them with mud flaps) or even the kids’ (last year they asked for Call of Duty; this year the brats wanted Booty Call), but they’re not nearly as entertaining as Farm Boy’s. Check it out and chortle.

  Chapter Eighteen

  DAME JOAN MAKES HER FARM DEBUT

  I hate polishing silver, but it sure beats the hell out of scrubbing chicken poop off the soles of the kids’ sneakers. It was actually my mom (aka Dame Joan in deference to her fondness for all things British: the BBC; mysteries set in Lancashire, the Cotswolds, and along the Thames; vicarages; scones; Merchant Ivory Productions—you get the picture) who noticed how tarnished the pieces were and offered to clean them up. Of course there was no way I was letting her do that during her vacation. At least not while there was laundry to be folded and a fridge to be cleaned.

  But really, it was great having her here during her winter break. Dame Joan100 is the principal of a large elementary school in Fort Lee, New Jersey.101 There are about six hundred students in th
e school and fifty teachers. She gets a week off in February, which is a damn good thing, as she really needs the time to recover from those rascals. And getting a respite from the kids is crucial, too.

  Her break usually coincides with my birthday, which is fun because then we get to spend it reminiscing about the night I was born (a Sunday night, after the Ed Sullivan Show, thank you very much; my selflessness and consideration made me my dad’s favorite from the start102, my first words (handbag and shoes and Chablis, please), and how old I was when I took my first steps (nine months, wearing a pair of winter white, trapdoor footsie pajamas slipped into Dame Joan’s sleek black pumps, and carrying her black patent leather clutch, her midnight-black muff perched on my head like a hat).

  We strolled down memory lane during this visit, too, only this time I managed not to crawl into her lap and demand to be regaled with tales of my birth and trendsetting toddlerhood. Instead, and only because I’ve put on a few and not because I’ve achieved any modicum of maturity, I forced myself to stay on my side of the “sofa that started it all.”103

  Dame Joan had her nose in a copy of Missing Joseph, a British murder mystery104 by Elizabeth George she’s read a million times and was only re-reading because she finished the dozen or so books she brought with her within five minutes of her arrival, and I was sitting next to her, Indian style, on my sweet couch, clutching one of its red and cream toile-covered pillows to my freakishly flat chest.105

  I didn’t say anything. I just sat there hugging my pillow, smiling like Nurse Ratched missed me on her rounds, and staring a hole in the side of Dame Joan’s beautiful blond head. For Pete’s sake, how long would it be before she tore herself away from the adventures of the dashing Detective Inspector Thomas Lynley and brilliant but sensitive forensic scientist Simon St. James? I mean, she knew the whole damn book by heart, and besides, my face was starting to freeze.