Authors: Josh Kilmer-Purcell
Tags: #Biography & Autobiography, #Personal Memoirs, #General, #Technology & Engineering, #Social Science, #Biography, #Goat Farmers - New York (State), #State & Local, #Josh, #Female Impersonators, #United States, #Gender Studies, #Middle Atlantic, #Female Impersonators - New York (State), #Goat Farmers, #Kilmer-Purcell, #New York (State), #Agriculture, #History
“Fuck!”
I said, suddenly standing up from the table.
“What’s wrong?” John asked.
I raced over to the oven. I’d spent hours that afternoon photo-documenting the process of making a perfect lattice crust sour cherry pie for a blog entry. And now I’d left it in the oven a full half hour longer than it should have been. I pulled out the darkened brown mess. The juices had boiled over and burned onto the side of the pan and on the bottom of the oven.
“It doesn’t look that bad,” John said. “It’ll still taste fine.”
“I know. But I need to get a good picture of it for the blog.”
“When my mother burns something, she always just dusts the top of it with powdered sugar,” John offered, which sounded like the perfect sort of Martha Stewart tip, if only Martha Stewart ever burned anything.
While John and Brent continued to discuss the new chore arrangements, I cut a slice of pie from the least-burned side and tried to artfully arrange it on a plate. I only needed one halfway decent photo for the Web site. And we needed to leave for the train back to the city in fifteen minutes.
“That doesn’t look good,” Brent said, looking over at what I was doing.
“I know. It’s not perfect. It’s not going to be perfect. I’m just trying to get this done so we don’t miss the train.”
“I’d thought I smelled something burning,” Brent added.
I’d reached my breaking point. I’d spent all afternoon making this pie for the blog—a pie that we wouldn’t even be able to eat since we were leaving for the city—and he didn’t say anything when he smelled it burning?
“Then why didn’t you say something!?”
“Because we’re not supposed to be talking to each other!”
“Then why don’t you shut the fuck up!!!”
John swallowed the last swig of his beer and excused himself into the warm summer night. He had to start his new job in the morning. Now he, like us, had yet another life to juggle. I wanted to warn him about what he was in for. But what were his options?
What were
our
options?
The following weekend:
D
IVIDE AND PLANT FIVE HUNDRED IRIS BULBS.
W
RITE BLOG ABOUT IRIS BULBS.
S
WEEP UP FLIES.
W
EED GARDEN.
W
RITE BLOG ABOUT DIFFERENT TYPES OF WEEDS.
P
ICK, SHELL, BLANCH, FREEZE TWENTY-FOUR QUARTS OF PEAS.
W
RITE BLOG ABOUT
“W
HY
W
E
B
LANCH.”
P
ULL GLOPPY ALGAE FROM POND.
D
ECIDE THAT PHOTO-DOCUMENTING ALGAE WOULD TURN OFF READERS.
T
IE UP HALF OF THE SOUR CHERRY TREE, WHICH HAD FALLEN OVER DURING A SUMMER STORM.
W
RITE BLOG ODE TO CHERRY TREE.
T
RIM MOCK ORANGE HEDGEROW.
S
TAKE TOMATOES.
R
EPAIR STONE WALL OUTSIDE CRYPT.
F
IX GARDEN SPRINKLERS.
M
OW LAWN.
A
RGUE WITH
B
RENT.
A
RGUE WITH
B
RENT.
A
RGUE WITH
B
RENT.
“Hi!”
“Nice to meet you!”
“So glad you could come.”
“We’re thrilled to help out.”
It was the 2008 annual Sharon Springs Historical Society Tour of Homes. Doug and Garth had tried to warn us against taking part, calling it the “Snoop and Poop Tour.” The last time they opened their own home for the historical society, someone went through their nightstand while someone else clogged their toilet.
But we were excited to meet even more of our neighbors. Brent, of course, couldn’t bear the thought of actually being inside with all those people who no doubt came by for the express purpose of scratching his floors. So we stood on the porch outside greeting everyone who entered.
“I have to go weed the strawberry beds,” I said, already tired of smiling. “Do you want to help?”
“No, I want to keep an eye on things.”
“For what? It’s the Sharon Springs Historical Society. I highly doubt they have plans to trash the place.”
“I’m staying here,” he said, ending yet another discussion.
We still weren’t really speaking with each other. Brent was growing exceedingly anxious about a possible visit from Martha. She’d brought it up several more times lately. To me it seemed as if it was her personal method of torturing him. I was growing more frustrated by the lists of chores that seemed to neglect the things I truly cared about. I didn’t care if the fenceposts were perfectly straight, but I did care that the tomatoes were solidly staked before they tipped over.
This weekend was going to be particularly difficult to get through. And in addition to putting on our usual happy faces for the Web site photos, we also had to do it in front of real people.
We’d agreed last year that we’d open the home for the historical society’s annual fund-raiser. In the weeks leading up to it, the president of the society gleefully informed us that they’d had more interest than ever. The Beekman hadn’t been open to the public since the Selzners had renovated it. It was the first chance for many people across the county to see the interior. Plus there was the added benefit of meeting TV’s own “Dr. Brent.”
Oh, and the other guy.
Naturally, rumors had also been flying that Martha would be here this weekend. Little did everyone know that this actually was one of the weekends that Martha had tentatively scheduled for her visit. Instead she’d taken a last-minute jaunt to Russia to watch her billionaire boyfriend launch himself into space on a Russian spacecraft. She’d actually packed him lunches for the trip. America’s lifestyle maven was going universal.
Even though Brent would no doubt disagree, the Beekman was in tip-top shape for the historical society tour. The row of white hydrangeas was standing tall and proud along the back of the wraparound columned porch. Dozens of different lily varieties were blooming in the flower garden, as were the delphiniums, irises, and poppies. John had been working late into the night, after arriving home from his new job, sweeping and organizing the barn so that the visitors could admire his goats. It was a perfectly sunny day, and—even though I was dead tired and frustrated—I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pride for all we’d accomplished as I watched small clusters of visitors exploring the grounds.
There was a momentary lull in new visitors, which meant that Brent and I could take a break from greeting people and stand in stony silence instead.
“It was so much nicer when the Selzners were here.”
“Oh, I know. Pat invited me over once. It was beautiful.”
“There’s not a single picture on the walls.”
The voices were coming through the open window behind me. I had no idea who was speaking, but I continued listening in, my heart dropping with each word. I knew Brent heard them as well.
“They don’t have any furniture! It’s like an echo chamber in here.”
“The previous owners had so many beautiful antiques.”
“I don’t like modern things. It seems so cold.”
“Yuck. Look at all these flies.”
“The flies are everywhere! It’s filthy.”
“Where’s Martha?”
“They said that Martha was going to be here.”