Confessions of a Counterfeit Farm Girl

by Susan McCorkindale

  Freaked out but determined to continue my pursuit of better health and slimmer hips, because after all, I’ve got the cutest new pair of cropped cargo pants and Desperate Housewives-style heels I can’t strut around in unless I lose six pounds, I asked my hero if he wouldn’t mind holding the beasts at bay until I reached the gate to the woods. He said no problem, so I took off again. Running. Have I mentioned how I hate to run?

  You’d think that after an animal adventure like I’d just had Mother Nature would move on to torturing somebody else, but you’d be wrong. First of all, as I sprinted past the grain silo the cattle in that corner of the farm caught sight of me and decided, like their girlfriends in the adjacent field, to join me for a group jog. It was nip and tuck for a few seconds as I panted my way to the gate, hopped it, and landed with a spastic plop on the other side, where I found myself face-to-face with not one, but two, foxes.

  Wonderful. I’d eluded death by trampling only to meet my maker by being mauled. And all because a pair of pants are a little snug.124

  Anyway, for a moment, nobody moved. And then, unable to hold my tongue a minute more, because frankly we all know that even in the face of my own mortality I have to make a comment, I said, “Is that your real fur color, or is it Clairol?” Maybe I offended them. Maybe they were repulsed by my New Yawk regionalism. But whatever it was, it did the trick. They charged off faster than Casey and Cuyler flee their chores, leaving me to stroll unimpeded to my favorite rock, where I meditated on my near-death experiences and the merits of simple starvation over exercise.

  In the end, I decided to cut out carbs. Sure, I miss rice and pasta and bread. But I get to eat lots of beef. And that really doesn’t bode well for number 93, now, does it?

  Fresh Fowl News!

  TO: Friends & Family

  FR: Hemingway’s Better Half

  Date: Saturday, 1 1 :00 a.m.

  Subject: Omelets, anyone?

  We have eggs! Or at least we had eggs. No sooner did Hemingway discover the first of the big, brown farm-fresh beauties the hens have begun to lay than he was in the kitchen, hollering, “Who wants omelets?” For all my bellyaching about those birds, I just couldn’t join him. I felt like I was eating family.

  In other fowl news, I learned an important lesson this week: Always turn off the power before hopping an electric fence.The electric fence protects the chickens from predators like foxes, dogs, and me with my Perdue “Poultry Basics” cookbook.

  Anyway, I went out to give the girls some scratch, and thought, Why shut the power off? The fence is low; I’ll just hop it. Despite a running start, I didn’t clear it, pulled my right hip flexor, and wound up once again fleeing the feathered fiends as they tried to attack my ankles. It’s this kind of stupidity that wins people Darwin Awards, so somebody better nominate me.

  As much as the hens hate me is as much as they love Hemingway. And damn if he isn’t fond of them, too. Right now he and Casey are building the crotchety beasts a traveling chicken coop.Talk about girls who get around. Known in farming circles as a chicken tractor, the damn thing has a specially constructed laying box with curtains so the gals can lay eggs in private (you’ll recall that I had to fight for locks on the bathroom doors), a heavy-duty perch (the chicken equivalent of a Sealy Posturpedic mattress), and wheels so it can be pulled by an ATV from one patch of fresh green grass to the next. I get to go nowhere, but the friggin’ hens are living the high life.

  On second thought, maybe I’ll have those eggs. A few sunny-side-up might brighten my day.

  Love,

  Susan

  P.S. This just in! Maybe the pullets are in cahoots with Hemingway’s pulmonary specialist, but we just received word that Farm Boy does not, I repeat, does not have histoplasmosis. Pastured poultry proponents from sea to shining sea are celebrating. And down here at Nate’s Place we’re pretty damn happy, too!

  Chapter Twenty-two

  YOU GOT A REFERENCE FOR THAT ROOSTER?

  Some days I miss my big job. Why? Because I enjoyed making big decisions. Things like, “Yes, you may spend forty-five thousand dollars on the new presentation the sales staff has been begging for, but in reality will use just once, decide they hate, and then stuff in a desk drawer. And no, you may not take a week’s vacation the week before the crucial, all-the-corporate-bigwigs-will-be-there national sales meeting. That’s when I’ll be away.” Those were the days.

  These days I take rooster references. The phone rings; I answer, and am treated to the curriculum vitae of any number of cocks. “Hi, this is Bob at Grass Up to Our Ass Farm. Your husband called and spoke to my wife’s aunt’s stepmother, Myrtle, regarding a rooster. We’ve got one for ya of mixed stock and good temperament. Had him with us awhile and he ain’t never hurt but one hen, and she had it coming.”

  Sounds great, Bob. Can you hold while I get a pencil and stick it in my eye?

  When I’m not fielding fowl calls I’m pursuing escaped poultry across the pasture. Unfortunately, I usually find myself in this predicament while wearing my low-rise Gap jeans and Via Spiga stilettos. Not a pretty picture, I assure you, and probably the reason the hens are doing their chicken-run routine in the first place. Just today, twelve of them literally flew their electrified coop. Hemingway kept yelling, “Head ’em off at the hog pen,” and “I’m too old for this!” And I kept shouting back, “I’m improperly attired! I’m improperly attired!” Together we chased and cajoled and even tackled a few of the future fryers—one of whom air-kissed my honey so fervently on the face it redefined the phrase peck on the cheek—but we didn’t have any real success until Cuyler came to our rescue. He raced out to us, announced we were “retarded,” and then kicked some serious pullet posterior. When he was finished he simply said, “You call yourselves farmers?” and then returned to his spot in front of the PlayStation.

  Of course my life isn’t just about chasing chickens or finding the perfect rooster to ride herd on them. Sometimes I’m also in sales. That’s right, the phone rings, and suddenly I’m the chief rainmaker at the McCorkindale Used Farm Equipment Company. “Morning, ma’am. I’m calling about your ad in the Valley Trader. The one for a trailer. I need to replace mine on account of my kids. Damn high schoolers and their naked hay rides. You got high schoolers, ma’am?”

  No, and at this rate my kids are never going.

  To be honest, phone sales is just not my forte. I seem to do better in person. Why do I think this? Because thanks to my fabulous personality, astonishing powers of description, and enthusiastic The Price Is Right approach, I helped unload several thousand dollars’ worth of hay equipment. Allow me to explain.

  One morning I was playing the piano and howling just below the maximum noise level allowed in Fauquier County when there was a knock at the door. I answered, and there was this man who reeked of, how shall I put this? Money. Lots of money.125

  Mr. Money said he was here about the hay equipment, and I said, “Oh, darn! My husband’s not here to show it to you.” And he said, “Well, why don’t you show it to me?” And I thought, Well, Daddy Warbucks, you’re assuming I know where he keeps the stuff. Which I don’t, as there are only fourteen buildings on the farm to choose from, and I’m really unsure which he’s chosen, but instead I said, “Sure!” and then teetered off in the direction of the Butler building. I figured the hay equipment, being big, would need a big place to be stored, and nothing’s bigger than the Butler building (so named for the company that built it: Butler. Ingenious!). In fact it’s so huge, it could house a J.Crew, Gap, and Banana Republic, something I beg for frequently, with a little Starbucks Express on the side. Oh, Lord, for how much longer will I be forced to go without my morning mocha?

  Anyway, I take Well-Heeled Harry, who’s real name is Kent, or Trent, or some other moneyed-sounding moniker, into our Yankee Stadium-size equipment shed, and there it all is: massive machinery I know absolutely nothing about. Wonderful. Where the hell is Hemingway when I need him? Repairing fence boards the bulls broke through in a d
esperate quest for a booty call with the cows? No, that was yesterday. Moving hay bales from one snake-infested storage spot to another? I don’t think so; even over the roar of the skid loader, I’d hear him hollering. Maybe he’s plowing a field, or planting one. I can’t recall. Jeez. What if he’s out on the tractor and he’s had an accident, and I don’t know and he can’t call ’cause cell phones don’t work here in the sixth circle of hell, and he’s slowly bleeding to death while I’m standing here with Daddy Warbucks, wondering, If I help sell this stuff can I get the Gucci mules I’ve had my eye on? Hmm. It’s times like this when I think it might be wise to start tuning in when he’s telling me what he’ll be doing all day.

  And I will. Tomorrow.

  Right now it’s time to get back to Tad, or maybe it’s Chad, who’s taken the lead. “Ah, there’s the Discbine mower your husband was telling me about!” “Yes, the Discbine mower,” I reply, like I’ve been speaking farm forever, “a fabulous piece of machinery made by”—(quick glance at the logo)—“New Holland. Can’t even believe we’re parting with that baby.”

  It went on like this for about ten minutes with Biff, or maybe it was Brad, walking from one hunk of metal to the next, and me following along, doing my best game-show-hostess-meets-used-car-salesperson patter: “Look at that fabulous shade of green!” and “You know what they say: Nothing runs like a Deere.” I must have done something right, because shortly after Hemingway showed up126 and relieved me of my sales duties, I learned that, thanks to me, Randolph would be taking almost everything.

  And all I wanted to know was who the hell is Randolph?

  In any case, about a week ago I was promoted, and my sales rep responsibilities expanded to include cow puncher.127 I was awarded this advancement because twice in one day I helped round up and return several escaped cows to their rightful pastures. Not an easy thing to do in peep-toe platforms, but I managed.

  Cow punching, for the uninitiated, is done in pairs. One person positions himself near the renegade ruminants to block them from going any farther astray. This is Hemingway’s job: he’s big; they’re big. It all works out. The other person stands about fifty yards away from the gate through which the cattle need to go, in an effort to force them in that direction and prevent them from coming closer to the house and possibly copping a squat on the porch. This is my job: the cattle are scared; I’m scared. It all works out.

  Once both people are in position, the person near the cattle yells, claps his hands, and threatens the beasts with a trip to the butcher until they take off toward the open gate. For about a minute, it looks as if the cattle will parade into the pasture without any further fuss, and then it happens. They veer away from the gate and straight toward you. Or in this case, me.

  Instantly I assumed the crucial basketball shuffle position so key to cow punching. Such instinct! Such an innate knack for the job! Why I spent so many years in magazine marketing when I was born to hurl Italian invectives at future hangar steaks, I’ll never know. But there I went, arms and legs stretched wide, feet shuffling first to the right, then to the left, silently praying I wouldn’t snap an ankle. 128

  With the beasts trotting toward me, I darted from side to side, swearing like a Soprano until they stopped dead in their tracks. Were they offended by my foul mouth? Frightened by my resemblance to a psychotic scarecrow? Who knows what goes on in the head of a head of cattle. Then they cocked their fly-ridden craniums, exhaled breath so rank it could remove wallpaper, turned, and headed straight back to Hemingway.

  It took a while to re-secure our prison-breaking bovines, but eventually we did it. Twice. Hemingway offered to pay me, but since the ten bucks he proffered won’t keep me in Keds, I told him forget it. Just put it toward the Visa bill for the leather JLo pumps I picked up. It’s not an even exchange, but to me (as I’m sure you can tell) nothing celebrates a job well done like designer footwear.

  Despite my affection for impractical attire, a fact that frustrates my work-boot-wearing better half, I demonstrate my willingness to be a helpful farm wife in other ways. For example, I read the rural magazines we get every month.

  Right this instant I’m perusing an issue of Hobby Farms, and I’m shocked to find myself wondering what the “Six Strategies for Fighting Flies This Summer” include. Showering daily? Using deodorant? Walking softly and brandishing a big fly swatter? There’s even a feature on “The Secret Life of Farm Dogs,” but I plan to skip it. One whiff of our manure-befouled bowwows and it’s no secret what they do all day.

  I’m also doing my best to get through the latest copy of Grass Farmer and a feature entitled “Train Your Cows to Be Weed Managers.” Can they really be encouraging cattle to climb the corporate ladder? And if so, how long before there are several in places like my BB&T, wearing buttons that say, “Beef up your savings. Ask me about our moovelous opportunities!”?

  When that day comes, and I’m standing there with my checking deposit, desperate to cover my latest foray into couture footwear, I really hope they won’t recognize me. And if they do, I pray they’ll recall I was the cow puncher who didn’t use a cattle prod. After all, they’ll be in a position to hire. And since I’m pretty sure bank pay tops the whopping wage I can earn around here, I hope they’ll consider me. Particularly if I promise to leave my leather pumps at home.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  WELCOME TO STUBURG

  After making me take about a dozen references for roosters, Hemingway finally bought one from a farmer in Hume. Mr. Rooster was promptly christened Hefner, so I suspect my better half still has a soft spot for the old “I read it for the articles” rag, Playboy, and let loose on the hens. Hef’s a handsome devil, a purebred, black-and-white Cuckoo Maran with a French lineage, a red plume, and a swinging strut.

  And the chicks dig him.

  Or maybe it’s just that he digs the chicks. After all, that’s his job, and he pursues it with the zeal of a Scientologist soundproofing a delivery room. The hens, on the other hand, don’t seem to share his passion for pullet procreation, preferring to continue pecking the ground for grubs while Hef does his stuff. In fact the hens seem so bored, I expect at any moment during “the act” to hear them suggest new paint colors for the ceiling of the chicken coop.129

  But back to Hef. We had houseguests last weekend, and our cuckoo Cuckoo Maran proved particularly entertaining. He provided ample chicken fornication demonstrations (a big hit with the teenagers in attendance) and free wake-up calls at three o’clock, four o’clock, and five o’clock every morning (not a big hit with anybody, believe me).

  If you’re thinking that roosters are supposed to crow only at daybreak because that’s what some guide told you and the rest of the first-graders during a field trip to the zoo, you’d be wrong. But don’t feel bad. The guide told Hemingway the same thing.130

  The fact is, roosters crow every fifty-eight minutes, or whenever their authority is threatened. And since the hens like to cluck in the laying box, a direct violation of Hef’s silent-birthing room rule, it’s no wonder he hollers constantly.

  In addition to being awakened before dawn and subjected to the sight of innumerable bantam booty calls, we treated our guests to many of the unique forms of fun found on the farm.

  For starters, we walked them through our Power Outage Response Procedure.131

  I was helping my friend Kim unpack her and her husband, Pete’s, stuff when I suddenly blurted out a fact that’s become as important to me as locating the nearest Nordstrom. “As soon as the power goes out, you fill the tub.”

  Now, my friend Kim is a senior executive at ESPN. She has a brilliant, strategic, marketing mind. She’s been profiled in magazines and awarded all kinds of honors. She’s logical, a born leader, and beautiful to boot. She’s also got a couple of loose screws and that’s what makes me love her.

  “Why would you take a bath during a blackout?” came her reply. An excellent question, and one I just so happened to ask myself the first time I was told this important tid
bit. Is it any wonder we’re friends?

  “No, no. You don’t bathe in it,” I responded, laughing and fussing with the huge guest basket next to the bed. “You use it to flush the toilet. When the power goes out, the pump goes out, and then that’s that for flushing. Unless you’ve filled the tub.”

  “Got it.” She paused a moment. “When does the power usually go out?”

  “Whenever it damn well pleases.”

  “OK, then.” She smiled and glanced at the massive goody collection I was trying to corral. “What is all that?”

  Back in Ridgewood, I had the sweetest little basket of snacks on the nightstand next to the bed in our guest room. In it were such essentials as extra toothbrushes and toothpaste; travel-size bottles of shampoo, conditioner, and body lotion (every bit of it from Bath & Body Works, natch); all manner of mouthwatering gourmet goodies—Dale and Thomas popcorn, Godiva chocolate, Toblerone bars, Kettle Chips, Peanut Shop peanuts, splits of Pinot Grigio, bottles of Perrier; and the latest issue of People. (Nothing like a little mind candy with some real candy before going to sleep, I always say.) Here at Nate’s Place I’ve still got a guest basket, but it’s a lot less luxurious.

  “It’s your sticks survival kit.” I barely get the words out before we both start cracking up. “Two flashlights, extra batteries, candles, matches, a pair of walkie-talkies, and a couple bottles of Poland Spring. Even some peanut butter crackers, in case you need a nosh in the dark. I’m telling you, Kim, this is a four-star farm we’re running here.”

  To prove it, we dragged our pals and their sweet daughter Noelle (whom I started calling NoliCannoli when dinner discussion turned to talk of my favorite Italian pastry, which, like Passover cards, you simply cannot get in these parts) out into the pasture for a rousing game of Name That Snake. Within ten minutes Hemingway saw three huge black snakes and assumed he had us all beat. But when Cuy tripped and connected with a nest of baby copperheads, we knew who the real winner was, not to mention how fast he could run.