The Bucolic Plague: How Two Manhattanites Became Gentlemen Farmers: An Unconventional Memoir Read Online Free

receipts at the front desk.
    “Did the Schmitters ever show?”
    Garth looked into number eleven.
    “Nope.”
    Doug turned back to us.
    “Good news, bad news,” Doug said. “Good news is that we have a room.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Bad news is that there’s only one double bed.” His face turned serious for the first time in the evening. “And we don’t go for homosexualists in these parts.”
    His tone was so sober that I almost believed him. But an instant later he broke out in his heartiest laugh of the evening as he rose to bring us the treasure of cubbyhole number eleven.

Chapter Two
    “They were nice,” Brent said once we’d settled into the car the next morning.
    “Yep,” I said curtly.
    “What’s wrong?” Brent asked.
    “Nothing.”
    “Nothing big, or nothing small?”
    “Nothing-nothing.”
    “Well, I had a good time,” he said.
    “Me too.”
    “Then what’s bothering you?”
    “I don’t know,” I said. “It just seems like the weekend flew by so quickly. I’m not ready to go back into the city.”
    It’s been said that whenever New Yorkers leave the city, they can’t fathom how they live there. But as soon as they return, they get caught right back up in the pace of it all and egotistically proclaim that they could never live anywhere else.
    Doug and Garth were kind enough to show us exactly where we were on the map and to trace out the most picturesque route back to the city. It seemed to be pretty much a straight line down Route 10 into a town called Cobleskill and then another forty-five minutes or so until we would hit the New York State Thruway. Then it was a straight two-and-a-half-hour ride right back into the hectic hustle and hassles of the greatest city in the world.
    I wasn’t ready to go back. I never was after our apple-picking weekends. They gave me just the slightest familiar taste of the slow rural life I enjoyed growing up in a small farm town in Wisconsin. Our five bushels of McIntoshes in the backseat may as well have been from the Garden of Eden. Each bite reminded me of how good it used to be, but how doomed we were to our stressful urban careers and lifestyle.
    We didn’t need to talk much, thankfully, as we drove down the pretty route that Doug and Garth had picked out for us. Just out of town we passed a picturesque pond and witnessed a flock of geese splash down for a pit stop on its way south. A little farther beyond we passed a herd of Holstein cows on a hill—black and white polka dots against the brilliant orange sugar maples. About four miles away we passed a tiny outcropping of farmhouses punctuated by an archetypal gleaming white wooden church. The Sunday service had just let out. Here was the church. Here was the steeple. Open up the doors and out came the people.
    “Wait. Slow down. Here’s another historical sign.” I would stop for anything to prolong our idyllic getaway. Luckily the entire area seemed to be saturated with state historical society roadside plaques. Whoever the local state senator was, he was certainly bringing home the bronze.
    This particular sign was planted on the road in front of an elaborate white house. It was unlike any house that we’d seen in the area. Most of the other homes in the vicinity were either simple turn-of-the-century farmhouses or prefabricated beige boxes.
    “What’s the sign say?” Brent asked. I rolled down the window and stuck my head out.
    “The Beekman Mansion. Built 1802. William Beekman was first judge of court held in Schoharie County. Died here on November 26, 1845. Buried on this farm.”
    “Is it a museum?”
    “I don’t know.” It looked like a museum. I wasn’t exactly an architecture buff, but I remembered enough from when my parents dragged me to Williamsburg, Virginia, as a child to recognize the structure as vaguely Federal. Maybe with a slight Georgian twist. It had white balustrades around the roofline and intricately carved arched moldings above each window.