Writing from the country, part 1
It was either spend my anniversary without my husband, or accompany him to Port Allegheny for one of his weekend farming trips. This year, to commemorate our seventeenth year of married life, we left the kids at home with my mother in-law and planned to stay in the small house on the property which had been vacant since the fall. My husband had already taken up a mattress and box-spring on his last trip to make it seem more inviting. He explained I could take my laptop along and write, and he could finish plowing. Farming the following weekend would be out of the question because of Mother’s Day, and his leaving would break our tradition of meeting his mom and sister’s family for a lunch midway between our state and theirs. Three upset mothers would be inevitably worse than dealing with one upset wife, and it wasn’t like this was one of those big, round-numbered anniversaries that came with grand expectations.
I didn’t have to go. He didn’t have to stay. That much we made clear to each other from the get go. But the more I thought about how many times he’d sat through my plays, or proofed one of my four hundred page manuscripts in a twenty-four hour period, I thought I should at least be as good a sport. After all, he worked all week in New York City and generally took this six hour drive solo on Friday nights after work, occasionally even after my son’s baseball games, arriving at the farm sometime between one and two a.m. I always knew he was a saint, which made me feel even worse doing my rain-dance once I had agreed to go. Often I agreed to challenges feeling certain God would surely get me out of them.
To my inexplicable shock, the weather forecast was good. I consoled myself knowing my husband didn’t want to drive out on Friday night. Instead, we were leaving Friday morning so we could (thank you again, God) have an extra full day.
By six a.m. we each had a coffee and muffin. Cows came into view around seven-thirty. By nine a.m., we had a second coffee, and a Schmuffin Sandwich from Sheets, getting two more muffins to go. I had already eaten more than I usually eat before 3 p.m, more carbs than I eat in an entire week. This was roughing it for sure.
The ride was remarkably pleasant. It was amazing how relaxing driving seemed once we were out of our major metropolitan area and away from our teenage kids. We had the longest uninterrupted conversation since our honeymoon, discussing each of our three kids in no particular order, spouting philosophies that didn’t work, comparing their upbringing to our own, and deciding we would do well to provide for ourselves until death, just to be safe.
I packed well, light on the clothes, heavy on the other supplies. I had my work covered with a laptop, printer, my manuscript, folding table, chairs, a notebook, pens, pencils, a coffee pot, and coffee. I had essentials like sheets, towels, a hand towel, shower curtain and hooks, paper towels, toilet cleaner, all purpose cleaner, trash bags, phone charger, and a novel, in case I hit a dry spot.
Finally, as the two lane highway merged into one, and the gravel gave way to dirt roads, the farm appeared. I was excited to see the red barn again, the trees, the house, horses, and pole barn, and some neighboring houses. I was undoubtedly out of my element here, and the more humans I was aware of, the more secure I felt.
The house hadn’t been lived in for a while, so I expected a little bit of a musty odor. The dead bugs were another story. My husband noted the expression on my face, and quickly ran off to get a stick vacuum out of a shed. I was busily running the kitchen sink water when I realized I wasn’t alone. A large wasp was crawling slowly up the door to the basement. I admit my first thought was to run, but I reminded myself I was after all in the wild, and the insect wasn’t really flying. I cursed myself for not packing hair spray. I was honestly trying to get into the spirit of “roughing it” and couldn’t imagine why I would need to keep my hair in one position. I forgot that hair spray was more important to me than a first aid kit, because one shot would render a bug’s wings too stiff to fly, and I could then place an upside-down glass upon it, until my husband came in from the field and removed the stiffened body. Guess what, no glasses either—only a paper cup which would amplify the wicked buzz, and drive me out of my skin.
I watched from the kitchen focused only on that one spot, watching the bug walk up and down the trim as if patrolling. I was never a jumper and screamer. I preferred to feign paralysis, play dead if necessary, and tip toe very slowly toward the nearest exit. I tried to talk myself through my panic. The predator was walking slowly. Probably, it was wounded. Possibly, it came in the front door. My husband always said they followed you inside—not that I ever believed him. One sighting in my home and I phoned the Chem-tech guy, regardless of how random the event seemed, or how asphyxiating the solution.
I looked at my car thinking I could clearly make a run for it if I needed to, except, there was a cat sitting in front of my door. A big, dark, brown, hairy, fat, biker of a cat, and if there was one thing I felt less comfortable with than bees, it was cats, which in my nightmares become vampires and sucked my blood, not my breath. So I wondered if my husband was making the vacuum from scratch, because it seemed like forever since I’d last seen him, and just then I noticed the congregation of bees in the sink, which only made me look at the cellar doorway again, where I could confirm, yes, they were in addition to the original one that so obviously did not follow us in the door. Now I was thinking, cat versus bees, and there was no contest, because it was a numbers’ game and thus far, I didn’t possess the ability to out-fly them.
Outside, I dashed past the cat, not making eye contact. I treated it like the threats I’d encountered in the Port Authority. I waited politely while my husband finished his conversation with a neighbor, trying very hard not to let the word hotel spring forth from my lips. He caught my look of distress and excused himself, apologizing for his delay. We walked close together to the shed, and on the way I casually asked for bug spray, explaining that we had an infestation. I knew he wanted to roll his eyes about as much as I wanted to say hotel, so we were even. Then I told him about the cat, and he told me to just to walk past it. I agreed, but when I looked for it using my peripheral vision, I couldn’t find it. It was now inside our car, walking on our yet unpacked belongings, probably looking to pick off a twenty out of my husband’s wallet. So this next grand announcement from me did produce the eye roll and the word hotel nearly simultaneously. We’d always had good rhythm.
My husband chased the cat out of the car. I stood still, confused and wondering whether I should go into the house knowing he’s going to war with the bees, or stay outside with the cat who was ticked because I ratted him out. This time I chose to go inside, because I had a competent defender holding two cans of poison. Plus, I needed to point out the bee that was still undoubtedly crawling up and down the doorway. He sprayed the sink easily enough, sprayed around the doorway, and then he asked if I noticed where they might be coming from. By now, I was talking non-stop in one of those Houston-we-have-a-problem tones, yes, there were a number on the window, some on the floor, hotel, hotel, hotel, kitchen counter—but God bless America, none in the bathroom where I was sure I would hide at the first sign of retaliation. As he sprayed and vacuumed the dead bodies, I pointed to the nest outside the right hand corner of the window, close to where I’d coincidentally placed my folding table and computer. He nodded, picked up the twenty-foot spray, and headed for the door, while I reminded him in my loudest Minnie Mouse voice of the can’s advisory never to spray during the day! But of course, he was going to do exactly that--what country man wouldn’t?
I couldn’t watch. I was a mixture of panic, horror, and adrenaline. If they attacked him, where was the nearest hospital? Did 911 work everywhere? Did my cell have a signal? If he was attacked, do I spray him with the other can which at least was approved for indoor use with the doors and windows wide open? Where was the neighbor now? Oh my God, where was the cat? I had been in the country less than twenty minutes, and I was already having chest pains.
My husband returned looking victorious. When I realized he wasn’t being tracked by an air brigade, I was ecstatic. I could hear my pinched voice telling him the infestation of Ladybugs I just found certainly meant good luck. I was actually flicking them off my workspace, making wishes. Before leaving me to begin his field work, he plugged in an XM portable satellite radio, so could I listen to the soothing voice of Jonathan Schwartz who I recalled from WNEW back when I was young and safe in New Jersey. It immediately calmed me down. I popped the top on my computer, and barely flinched as the ladybugs smashed themselves against the toxic window. Hours passed as I busily edited. I rose to make a pot of coffee, and as I looked at the cat rolling on his back at my doorstep, I comforted myself knowing at least my chances of encountering field mice indoors today were pretty slim.
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Part 2
For a person who grew up with street lights on every corner, traffic lights at intersections, and porch lights that could spot Carnegie Hall, my understanding of “the dark” didn’t begin to match what dark began to look like at this farm. By seven-thirty I was out of the writing business in the living room, since I foolishly neglected to bring along a table lamp. I began my inspection of the two empty bedrooms, finally deciding upon the one with the strongest overhead light. It faced the road, the hills, and nothing beyond, except perhaps that cemetery I couldn’t help noticing as we drove by. There was the mirror hanging on the outside of the closet door, which I was afraid would scare the hell out of me when I accidentally saw my own image. But I took the risk. I followed the light, and moved my laptop, chair, and table.
As my luck would have it, I needed a three prong adapter to plug in, but I hadn’t brought that either. So I operated on my battery, hoping my husband would return from the fields before my power drained down. I hoped not to be found mumbling the word hotel into the black computer screen. I concentrated on my work, and ignored the draining light outside. Soon enough, the only life I saw was my image in that mirror, and now it actually comforted me. I recognized the good and brave woman, the one who knew it was good to have journeyed to the hills of Port Allegheny for her anniversary. She lived on the edge, without a table lamp, without the internet, without an adapter, or even fresh fruit. I vowed be more like her.
From my city-girl perspective I was totally vulnerable. Cats, wild dogs, even black bears were able to observe me through the uncovered window, and I couldn’t see them. Any attacker sneaking up on me could yell “boo” and have the advantage. I knew there were still friendly horses in the field, and my husband was out there somewhere, but for now, everything including the nearby trees, had completely vanished. The window was nothing but a black rectangle—so long as I applied no imagination. I considered opening the bottle of home-made wine we brought along, but I was determined to use my time writing instead of envisioning dead people, drooling wolves, or even black, vampire cats. The bars on my cell phone were disappearing, and I contemplated the ineffectiveness of throwing my tiny, toy phone at any living intruder. It would be undoubtedly wiser to smash something with my folding table I suspected. As if on cue, “Stars and Stripes Forever” blared out of the phone in my fist, reverberating loudly against the walls of the empty room, driving me straight up out of my chair. My husband was calling to warn me he was coming in, so I wouldn’t be startled.
I have never been so delighted to see another human. He was back in one piece, it was nine-forty p.m., and I didn’t have to be brave in the wilderness again until morning. He opened the bottle of wine, and we headed outside with our paper cups to look at the moon and myriad celestial bodies invisible from our home in metropolitan New Jersey. Carefully, I attempted to drink my wine and walk on the bumpy dirt road, while staring at the sky. I felt myself small and shrinking. I saw my moon shadow. A stranger to country nights, everywhere I looked I saw nothing, absolutely nothing in the distance. No roads, no houses, no street lights. No planes passing overhead. It was only by looking up that I could even be sure I of where I stood.
My first yard was about the size of a double bed. I could not have imagined becoming a farmer’s wife, yet here I was, listening to the roar of a wild beast. My husband explained the sound as a horse’s whinny, and pointed to where they were grazing happily. I asked about the occurrence of black bears, wondering out loud what would happen if I decided to cook Italian and left the kitchen window open. He shook his head. They generally ate his corn he reminded me. But it wasn’t really the wild animals that kept me awestruck. It was never having known such peace and quiet under the stars, and not understanding how to conform. It was the lack of light anywhere but down from the heavens. It was the feeling of being totally cut off from the world when the world I knew included teenagers, air traffic, and cable TV. But even if at first I couldn’t seem to stay out of fight or flight mode, I was still glad I had come. In this rural location, where cats congregated, horses spoke their minds, and light evaporated suddenly, I was mentally detoxifying. And I was no longer shaking.