|
Want to be notified when the blog is updated? Want to share your own story or offer some encouragement? Want to mock me until I'm a blubbering wreck? Whatever the reason, click HERE to send me an email. If you've got something to say, I want to hear from you. I'll honor wishes to remain anonymous, but make no other promises. Anything you send might (or might not) appear in the blog. | ||||||||
| ||||||||
|
The Counterfeit Farm Girl After reading my last blog entry, which focused on Dawn�s newly acquired, debilitating heart condition, many of you faithful readers promptly freaked out. Dawn was touched by your concern and asked me to alleviate your fears. No, she is not dying. Last week her Premature Atrial Contractions (PACs) were getting way out of control, but her doctor prescribed beta blockers and that seems to have her PAC-man fever under control. So today we took to the road to test her endurance. We were heading back to horse country to see what 4-� miles of hilly roads would do to her. If the PACs weren�t going to do her in, I was going to give it a try. We began the walk around midday in the quiet hamlet of Rectortown. The temperature was warm, but not oppressive, and our spirits were high as we began. But as soon as Rectortown�s collection of old, quaint houses faded from view behind us, the long roller coaster of intermediate slopes began to assault our calves. For the first three miles, no hill by itself was enough to do us in, but the constant sway of the road had a compounding effect. Then we hit a hill with a skiing grade of black diamond and all bets were off. I was aching but didn�t want to be the one to ask for a break. I mean, how do you live down being beaten by an invalid heart patient? So I was glad to hear Dawn ask to stop. At least that�s what I think she wanted. What she actually said was, "Blaaaghhh, blee blee." I dropped my rucksack in the shade of an oak tree and we swapped out my empty water bottle for one that was still chilled with ice. De-li-cious!
"You sure? We can hang out in this shade if you need to rest a little longer." "No, I�m fine." "I was just thinking about your PACs." "Shut up and get a move on." Dammit. We chugged up that final hill, which twisted its way around fields and over a couple of false crests. Finally, though, we made it to the top, where a herd of polo horses were grazing in a field with cows. We�d brought along some apples to feed them, but when we called them over they just tossed their manes and showed us their hind ends. I guess being polo horses they were expecting caviar or something. Their loss. Dawn and I chowed down on the apples, which were a wonderful treat after clambering up that hill. We only had about a half-mile to go, but the roadside still held one more surprise for us. We�d reached the town limits of Upperville and suddenly the endless line of fencing that borders almost every road in horse country changed its style from the typical three-post, wooden structure to waist-high stone walls. And boy were they gorgeous. These walls weren�t cut stones slapped together with mortar; they were loose stones stacked in piles that were framed by the timbers of a standard fence. I imagined how difficult it must have been to construct each six-foot segment of this wall, and then I looked off to the horizon.
For now, though, we found ourselves approaching our destination: Sue McCorkindale�s farm. We were visiting Sue�s farm so I could interview her for a Virginia Living story about her latest memoir, 500 Acres and No Place to Hide. Just as Dawn defies expectations (Debilitating heart condition? Pffshaw! Watch me attack that hill!), so does Sue. She is a fast-talking, petite, blonde who used to work in New York City as the marketing director for Family Circle magazine. She is an amalgamation of characters from Sex and the City and the Real Housewives of New Jersey, and nothing, not even relocating to a farm in the sticks, will make this brash Jersey Girl change her city ways. When her husband suggested moving out of the city to a farm in central Virginia, she was supportive, but a little shell-shocked. "I didn�t see anything on the drive down," she said. "I remember thinking, 'Oh my God, there�s nothing here!' I didn�t see anything but religious billboards, you know, �Got God?� Yes, I do, but I don�t think God�s hanging with me today because I�m about to move to a farm! I have a feeling I�ve been left.
Now she's adjusted to the peace and quiet of Upperville and even to farm life...but only so much. When Sue toured us around her farm, she didn't look anything like a typical farmer. Her blonde do was a high-end precision cut and her shirt was a snazzy white, boat-neck number. And instead of boots to tromp through the muck, she stepped cautiously in a pair of heels. Heels? On a farm? How has that worked out for her? "Lots of broken shoes," she said. "The heel snaps, the buckles pop off, you name it. Eventually what I figured out is you don�t wear the really good shoes during the day like you used to, Susan, you dum-dum. You save those for a special occasion. You go to Pay Less for cheapies and wear them around the farm." To hear more from our day together pick up a copy of the November issue of Virginia Living. If you like stories packed with humorous mishaps, you should pick up a copy of her memoir, 500 Acres and No Place to Hide. It's humorous from cover to cover, even when her life gets turned upside down in a way that would leave most of us crying. But to really get a sense of the book's tone, click on this video and listen to what farmer Sue has to say about it herself: Earth, Wind, and Fire Have you heard the latest news? Earth, Wind, and Fire are playing in Hampton Roads. Unfortunately, I�m not talking about the band. I�m talking about natural disasters. First, lighting struck the Great Dismal Swamp, which started a fire burning out of control, spewing noxious fumes across the northern North Carolina and all of Hampton Roads. Then on August 23, an earthquake centered near Richmond registered 5.8 on the Richter Scale and shook the entire East Coast. When it happened, I was working on the computer on the second floor. I thought the floor was shaking because the washing machine had an uneven load in it. But then I remembered I wasn�t washing a load. The third destructive force to be visited upon us had the gentle name of Irene. But Irene wasn�t gentle at all because Irene was a hurricane. She came barreling through the area, smashing houses and knocking trees onto power lines. Everyone thought the storm might at least cancel out the Dismal Swamp fire, but it merely cut off power throughout several states and left hundreds of thousands of people stinky and sweaty. Welcome to my world. Amid all that mess I received one piece of great news. The New York Quarterly, which Rolling Stone calls �The most important poetry magazine in America,� informed me that they would be publishing one of my poems in an upcoming issue. I was so excited about the news that I immediately told Dawn, who, in usual fashion, slapped me back to reality. At least her version of it. �Well, that does it,� she said. �When the Earth shook, the wind ripped our roofs off, and sulphur rained down from the sky, I didn�t believe it was the end of the world. But you being published in New York Quarterly? Now THAT is a sign of the apocalypse!� That was the final straw. After the first night of sweating in bed from a loss of power due to Irene, I decided to escape. If I couldn�t get any work done on the computer at home, at least I could finish up the leg I�d started at the end of last month in Northern Virginia. I drove up to Warrenton and spent the night rolling around on fresh sheets in my air-conditioned hotel room. I tried to call Dawn to rub her nose in it�I mean, tell her how much I missed her�but both her phones were turned off because of the power loss. Oh, well, it�s the thought that counts. The next morning, I scouted out the seven miles I had to hike from The Plains to Rectortown. Since I was out there on my own I decided to start at the halfway point in the town of Marshall and turn around to go back after I�d reached the end. Sure, that would double my mileage, but the nearest taxi was located in Warrenton and the price to come out to Rectortown was too steep for my cheap�I mean, thrifty�ways. The temperature, for once, was actually chilly when I started. It slowly warmed up as I walked up the road, but I reached Rectortown before it got hot. My turnaround point was the local elementary school, and when I got there I saw a couple of people taking down the flag from the pole. Parked at the curb was a truck with its door open. I figured at least one of them was getting ready to go home, so I moseyed over to see if I could get a ride. Terry, the school�s head janitor, was so helpful that he drove me past where I started this morning so I could walk back to the midway point and not do any doubling back at all. Since Terry saved me that extra distance, I decided to do some extra exploring with a four-mile circuit through Warrenton. Dawn and I had hoofed through the town before, visiting the renovated Train Depot Restaurant, the preserved slave auction blocks, and the Old Jail Museum, so I didn�t really know if there were any more surprises left for me. There were. First, I passed by the courthouse and saw, out front, a prominent statue of Supreme Court Justice John Marshall. I chatted with a deputy who told me that Marshall had come from this town. The deputy also informed me that the Gray Ghost, Colonel John Singleton Mosby, leader of the Rangers that performed raids on Union forces in NOVA throughout the Civil War, was buried in a cemetery on the other side of town. Well, that I had to see. When I got to the sizable cemetery, I read the map posted on the outside wall of the groundskeeper�s hut but couldn�t find Mosby�s grave.
I rounded my circuit and came back through the center of town, stopping at a little caf� called Jimmie�s Market. As I sipped one of their specialty drinks, which was half tea and half juice, the proprietor started chatting me up. I asked her a couple of questions about Warrenton, and she said, �Oh, you�ve asked the right person. I�m the queen of gossip.� Turns out she was right. In a period of fifteen minutes, she told me about hushed up thefts, money laundering schemes by local businessmen, and even the presence of the Mafia in town. The Mafia? Hmm. She lost me with that nugget. Even though I wasn�t sold on the veracity of her stories, I was fascinated by the way she found sinister meaning behind whatever she observes. Someone glancing back as she walks past the store? She must be plotting something. Someone not glancing back as she walks past the store? She�s also plotting something, but she�s too cagy to let on. I left the caf� pondering how the way we want things to be affects the manner in which we interpret what we view. I took a good, long look at Warrenton�s main drag and didn�t see dark agents lurking behind every corner. I saw Main Street USA. Families strolling along sidewalks peeking into shop windows. Catchy phrases written in chalk on sandwich boards to entice patrons. And in front of the post office, a street musician blowing songs for passers by on his trumpet. I soaked in the beautiful fall day as the musician finished his song. Then I fished out five bucks from my wallet and asked him to play a song that summed up how I felt. Nothing bleak, and nothing by Earth, Wind, and Fire. I didn�t want to focus on this month�s natural disasters; I wanted to see the silver lining in the sulphuric cloud. I asked him to play Louie Armstrong�s What a Wonderful World, and as the brassy notes danced in the air I knew it was true. The world is wonderful. If you want it to be. |
Sure you don�t want to rest a little longer?
Rock on!
The latest in tractor haute couture
The Stars & Bars flies over the Gray Ghost's grave