Confessions of a Counterfeit Farm Girl

by Susan McCorkindale

  “I didn’t get fired!”

  “Then he’s selling the farm. Duh. Why didn’t I think of that? And we need to move. And since he’s selling the farm he won’t need a farm manager anymore so it’s kind of like you got fired or downsized or whatever.”

  “Susan, Doug’s not selling the farm, and I didn’t get fired.”

  “So you’re hovering over me because why? You lost a bet and you get to tell me I have a brain tumor or the big C or something? Please. I already told you. I’m dying of Stu salad.”

  “I’m here because I thought my salad would taste better with chunks of salmon.”

  “Anything not to kill a chicken.”

  “Chicken wouldn’t be bad. But salmon would be good, too.”

  “Trust me; chicken’s the way to go.”

  “You just don’t like them because they peck at your feet.”

  “Excuse me for wanting to protect a thirty-five-dollar pedicure.”

  “Try a pair of boots.”

  “Now, there’s a look. Boots with shorts. Works in the chicken coop and on the street corner!”

  “Very funny.”

  “Don’t you think the house would look better with black shutters?”

  “The house would look better with water.”

  “What, the well pump’s out again? I’m getting a little tired of using all our Poland Spring for the boys’ baths.”

  “The pump’s fine. I’ve just been thinking how great it would be to be completely self-sustaining. You know, to live off the land. We already grow our own produce. The chickens give us plenty of eggs. The next logical step is salmon.”

  “I’d think the next logical step would be pigs. Then we’d have a little bacon to go with our eggs. And then we could open a diner.”225

  “I’m trying to talk seriously with you about this.”

  “You seriously need salmon?”

  “Yes.”

  “So walk down the cellar steps to the freezer and get some.”

  “I’m talking about raising our own.”

  “Don’t you need water for that?”

  “That’s what I’m saying. Hey, where are you going?”

  “To cancel your subscriptions to Hobby Farms, Progressive Farmer, and that Organic Living newsletter that claims it can be used as toilet paper after you’re done reading it. Which I guess is only fitting, since first it fills your head with crap and then it helps get rid of it on the way out.”

  “Susan, I’m trying to talk to you about living on the water. Don’t you remember telling me you wanted to do that?”

  You know the movie Groundhog Day? Well, it seems that every two years I have a sort of Groundhog Day of my own. Granted, there are twenty-four months between each, but still it’s as if I wake up to find myself in the middle of a conversation about a conversation I have absolutely no memory of. You’d think there would be medication for this, and maybe there is. I just can’t seem to remember to ask my doctor about it.

  But back to this particularly stressful moment in my life.

  “Of course I want to live on the water. I’m a Pisces. I’d live in the tub if the kids didn’t need to stand in it for their once-a-month whether-they-need-it-or-not showers. So sure, I probably mentioned it. Just like I also probably mentioned how much I’d like to run away for a weekend with John Cusack. But I don’t suppose that little request’s about to resurface, is it?”

  “Funny, I thought you were a George Clooney fan.”

  “John Cusack. I’ve had a thing for him since Say Anything.”

  “His movies you can remember. Our conversations you can’t.”

  “Forgive me for not wanting to drop everything and run off to a lake or wherever it is you need to go raise salmon. I’m sure I said that one day I’d like to live on the water. But what makes you think that one day is today?”

  “I found the perfect lake.”

  “I had no idea you were looking.”

  “Think of it as my contribution to keeping the mystery alive in our marriage.”

  “The mystery is how I haven’t killed you yet.”

  “Come on, admit it. You want to know about the lake.”

  “OK, mystery man, where is this lake and how do we raise salmon in it?”

  “You don’t raise them in the lake. The lake just provides the water for the big tanks that we’ll put in the backyard.”

  “I take it there’s a house involved.”

  “Your favorite kind.”

  “Waterfront, with a view of Neiman Marcus?”

  “Like I said, you’ll have to see for yourself.”

  “Hmm. A house on the water with something other than a Tractor Supply nearby. Dare I even inquire as to the status of a Starbucks?”

  “I dare you not to.”

  “Get out. You’re either making this up or I’m having some kind of pre-death brain fart brought on by your damn salad.226 I swear, in a minute I’m going to hear a voice telling me to walk toward the light and then you and your house on the shores of fabulous shopping will disappear and I’ll be dead.”

  “Are you done now?”

  Is he kidding? Of course I’m not done. How can I be done? We just got here. In fact we still have boxes in the Butler building that we haven’t unpacked. The kids are finally settled. I’ve just made friends. And I’m just catching on to this farming stuff.

  After eighteen months, I now know the difference between a steer and bull, and I can hold an intelligent conversation about the pros and cons of making hay. In addition, I know more than any DKNY-wearing former magazine marketing pro should ever have to know about pastured poultry and rotational grazing. And I’m finally comfortable with the fact that bush hog is spelled with two words.

  And now he wants me to move.

  “Alright, here’s the deal. I’ll see the lake, the house, the whole shebang. But I’m not making any promises.”

  “That’s all I ask. I’m telling you, you’re going to love it. There’s room for the chickens and a big vegetable garden. And I’m going to raise the most delicious salmon you’ve ever tasted. You know what else? We can get a motorboat. And you know what that means, right?”

  “What?”

  “You can finally learn to water ski.”

  “Water ski? Me?”

  “Don’t you remember telling me you wanted to learn?”

  Bill Murray, where are you?

  THE IMPRACTICAL GIRL’S GUIDE TO FARM SPEAK

  Noah Webster I’m not. But if you’ve ever entertained the idea of ditching the city or the suburbs for the back o’ beyond, you’ll need to know some farm speak. You’ll also need to know how to parallel park a pickup truck, but as I can’t maneuver the Mustang into a space without mangling the meters on both ends, I think it best to leave that lesson to the pros. For a crash course in talking country, see below. For tips on finagling your Ford F-150 into a Priussize spot, call your local driving school.

  Barn—Large, airy building perfect for rebirth as a mini mall, day spa, or Designer Shoe Warehouse.

  Brush Cutter—Unwieldy, self-propelled device that “goes where your bush hog’s never been!” which means it can fit into tight spots around places like the springhouse, chicken coop and hog pen. (Come to think of it, maybe I should try it in the small space between Casey’s bed and the wall. I’m unsure what’s growing there, but I believe it began as a pair of boxer shorts and several manure-encrusted sweat socks. In any case, “it” is starting to bloom, and since bleach and a touch of Round-Up didn’t get rid of it, it might be wise to bring in the big guns. Failing that, I could simply set fire to the room and move my slob, I mean son, to the barn where he belongs.) Anyway, the brush cutter is great for mowing down the scratchy, stalky stuff that sprouts purple buds in a desperate attempt to convince us it’s a flower and not the weed we know it is, as well as thistle, weed bushes, and the occasional black snake. But it’s even better at getting away from Hemingway (remember, it’s self-propelled), turning around, and chasing him acros
s the field while the kids and I watch, horrified and hollering, “Run, Daddy, run!” from the safety of the front porch.

  Burn Pile—Forget hauling your refuse to the recycling center (because, remember, there’s no garbage pickup here). Simply toss it in the burn pile on your property. First, tell the kids you’re putting in a swimming pool, then dig a huge pit. Next, throw in all your household crap: broken coffee tables, crushed cereal boxes, mangled lawn chairs, empty snack packages, old sofas, decade-old tax documents, even rugs decimated by pup-regurgitated potpourri (sorry, Mom!). Hand your kids a couple of packages of marshmallows and some long twigs, and set the whole kit’n’kaboodle ablaze. Sure, they’ll be pissed it’s not a pool, but it’s nothing a few s’mores can’t cure.

  Bush Hog—Basically a massive lawn mower. The major difference is you don’t ride it and you don’t push it. You pull it behind a gigantic tractor. And this is what makes the testosterone heavy among us very happy. To Hemingway, there’s nothing better than a day spent sitting at the helm of the New Holland, pulling the bush hog over the pastures, cutting swaths of grass the width of an airstrip and the height of a Marine recruit’s haircut. In short, the perfect piece of equipment for keeping husbands busy between ball games.

  Bush Hog Repairman—A frequent visitor during the spring and summer months, when Hemingway inadvertently uses the bush hog to find tree stumps, rocks, and the rusted remains of long-lost farm equipment.

  Butler Building—A prefabricated metal building. Farmers use it to store equipment and protect it from the rain. Pigeons use it to roost in the beams and poop on the equipment, which then has to be washed—usually with recycled rainwater.

  Cattle Guard—A series of thick metal slats that run the width of a farm road. There are just a few inches of space between each slat; enough to catch the hooves of an escaped cow and prevent it from running out into the street and becoming hamburger. The cattle guard’s also primo at snagging the wheels on my Rollerblades and snapping the heels off my suede Louboutin boots. The damn thing treats my stuff like chopped liver. So why I should care about the cows becoming chop meat is beyond me.

  Chicken—Feathered egg-laying machine that frolics in its own filth, snatches hot dogs from the hands of children, and pecks fresh pedicures with a vengeance. Synonyms for chicken include fowl, pullet, hen, banty, and friggin’ bird.

  Chicken Tractor—A chicken coop on wheels. Makes moving the pullets to fresh pastures easy, and trips to the butcher a breeze.

  Cow—Massive ruminant (mammal with four stomachs) weighing about 1,500 pounds, despite being a vegetarian. Can be used to simultaneously mow and fertilize grass, attract flies for chickens to eat, and, ultimately, as the main course at a barbeque. Common cow terms include: heifer, a cow that’s never had a calf; calf, a baby cow; bull, a male cow; and steer, a bull caught hanging with the heifers and consequently castrated.

  Cow Wintering—When I first heard about cow wintering, I thought, “Unfair! Unfair! Chickens get a customized RV to take them places (see Chicken Tractor) while the bovines get to hit Miami Beach. What do I get to do? Stay here in the frozen sticks!” As it turns out, the chickens may be headed for a hot spot (like my broiler), but cattle spend the frigid winter months in the fields, munching dead corn stalks in the snow. Not exactly the Bovine Spring Break I believed it to be.

  Deer—Overgrown rodent with a talent for making kamikaze attacks on cars. A perennial favorite of both hunters and auto body shops.

  Dual-Purpose Cows—The hardest-working bovines in the farm business. Used first for dairy production; once they run dry they make their debut in the butcher department.

  Farm—A pastoral setting bedecked with fences, livestock, tractors, and barns, many of which are unused, so why one can’t hold an Ann Taylor or a Starbucks is beyond me.

  Four-wheeler—Synonyms include ATV, Japanese Quarter Horse, Quad, and the Second Most Popular Form of Farm-Style Suicide. (Number one is stupid tractor tricks.) Typically ridden sans helmets (no matter how much your kids promise they’ll put them on) and at high speeds over unfamiliar terrain, four-wheelers are fun for the whole family. If your idea of fun includes concussions, crushed bones, and blood loss. Use your head. Wear a helmet.

  Hay—What some folks in the sticks make while the sun shines. Comes in square bales and round bales, and the good stuff (yes, there’s such a thing as “good” hay) is snapped up by the horse folks, who buy only the best for their million-dollar mounts. The dregs wind up at nurseries in suburbia, where minivan-driving moms pick it up along with pumpkins for their Halloween decorating endeavors. Guess who pays the highest price per bale?

  High-Speed Internet—A fabrication of the HughesNet folks. Here at Nate’s Place, we connect to cyberspace via satellite. First I click on Explorer, then I shower, dress, put on my makeup, straighten the kitchen, and kick the dogs out for the day. By the time I’m back at my desk, my MSN home page is just opening. I highlight “Horoscopes” and go make more coffee. Clearly the connection’s not fast, but it’s certainly accelerated my multitasking skills.

  Horse—Massive mammal that’s as much work as a newborn. Folks in this neck of the woods pay millions for their mounts and house them in stalls as luxurious as four-star hotels. Live here awhile and you’ll realize it’s not a dog’s life you’re after; it’s Affirmed’s. (Affirmed was the eleventh American Triple Crown winner. He and his rival, Alydar, went at it tooth and nail. Kind of like the Yankees and the Red Sox, if you know what I mean.)

  Hydraulics—In a nutshell, hydraulics is the science of operating machinery via the pressure created by forcing a liquid like water or oil through a narrow pipe. Rather like shooting collagen through a tiny needle and into your lips to make them more luscious, or counting on a bra with a built-in water pump to give you cleavage. Not that I have firsthand experience with any of that stuff, but you know what I mean.

  Manure Management—A tad bit different from upper management (but not by much), manure management is the process of spreading cow crap over the fields upon which dairy cattle dine. This popular organic approach results in milk that’s better for you, if you can get past the fact that its extra-special ingredient is feces.

  Organic Gardening—Using dead things to grow live things. Hemingway fertilizes his impressive harvest with food scraps, leaves, grass, cow manure, crushed eggshells, and chicken droppings. Then he sets our fowl free on the garden to do bug patrol. After that, the trick is in the timing: He’s got to pull the chickens off the job the moment they’ve cleared the place of creepy-crawlies and before they begin pigging out on the produce they were used to protect.

  Pastured Poultry—The practice of letting chickens graze where they like, as opposed to being confined in a coop. The organic farming militant to whom I’m married believes free-ranging fowl will make for a more delicious bird. I can hardly wait to conduct that taste test.

  Pickup Truck—The local antidote to a minivan. If you live in the country, your preferred mode of transportation is a massive pickup with vanity plates, and a dog to do the driving while you fiddle around with the gun rack.

  Range Cubes—The dog biscuits of the bovine world. Only cattle are more likely to shit than sit at the mere sight of these snacks.

  Rotational Grazing—The practice of moving cattle from one field to another on a regular basis so the grass in the original field can regenerate. Think of it as going to a different restaurant each month with your girlfriends, then working your way back to the first spot once the drink specials have changed.

  Skid Loader (aka Skid Steer Loader)—Basically, an electric chair on wheels. You climb in through a hatch and squeeze into a seat surrounded by a steel cage. (Kind of like Hannibal Lecter’s lockup.) Hand grips control the wheels: push them forward to go forward; pull back to go in reverse. Push one forward and the other back and you’re spinning in a circle. You know, like a preschooler in a Fisher-Price race car. Foot pedals operate the bucket, which I imagine is there to catch the prisoner should he or she pitc
h forward from the force of the electricity. Hemingway says I’m overreacting to the precariousness of this contraption, but in my opinion, the skid loader alone is the reason farming’s the nation’s third-most-dangerous profession. Obviously I’m having a tough time shaking that little tidbit of information.

  Tractor—The pickup truck’s big brother, complete with a never-ending variety of attachments, all of which can kill or maim in a never-ending variety of methods. Hard-core owners insist on open cabs so they can battle sunstroke and frostbite on even terms, while softies prefer closed cabs that muffle the screams of those about to be crushed beneath the bush hog.

  Tractor Supply—The Saks of the sticks. No Ralph Lauren, but a full selection of ladies’ insulated bib overalls, matching goatskin gloves, and rubber muck boots. (Personally, I’m waiting for ones with a peek-a-boo toe before I even consider buying a pair.) The first stop for dual-lid full-size truck toolboxes, llama food, cattle dewormer, ear tags, and udder wash, if that’s what trips your trigger. And no, they don’t sell hunting supplies.

  Weed Whacker—Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, Oh, a weed whacker. Big deal. We have one of those. No, you don’t have one of these. You could take out a redwood with this sucker. It’s huge. It’s powerful. It’s best used in the morning, when the farmer slinging it is sober. But you can’t tell that to my man. Occasionally Hemingway gets it into his head that weed whacking in the twilight after a couple of vodka tonics is a commendable undertaking. So then I, in an effort not to need an undertaker, grab my wine and the portable phone and head to the front porch. There I sit, watching and waiting, with bated chardonnay breath, for the weed whacker to take off his toes, hack off a hunk of heel, or amputate his entire foot at the ankle. Should it happen I’ll certainly call an ambulance. And maybe they’ll even take him to the hospital. But probably not before telling us about some poor bastard who lost an ear and a chunk of scalp while whacking weeds country style.