fruit, and planned their days. Cici usually had some project going around the house—matching a piece of hand-milled molding from the 1920s, patching the crumbling mortar in the stone floor of a patio, building a closet or a set of shelves. By eight o’clock, Ida Mae was usually busy polishing furniture and mopping floors, and Bridget was feeding the chickens, checking on the sheep, or working in the vegetable garden. On the days that Lindsay had students in for art classes, she was in her converted dairy barn studio by nine, preparing canvases and mixing paints. Otherwise she never lacked for occupation with the flower gardens, the trellises, the ponds and patios. As the summer progressed, the orchard, vineyard, and nut-bearing trees all needed attention, and when harvest began an entirely new flurry of activity consumed the household. There were very few moments of downtime at Ladybug Farm.
So far this day had included for Cici twelve phone calls, eight e-mails, four faxes, and a trip to the hardware store. She had finished framing out the dance floor and was waiting for the rest of the materials to be delivered so that she could start placing the floorboards. It was after noon, and she was feeding the chickens because no one else had had time to do it, and she still had the table rounds to make.
Every surface in the kitchen was filled with sample dishes, pots were steaming on the burners, and Bridget was madly whisking, slicing, and basting. Ida Mae was sulking about something and taking out her pique on the windows, which she was polishing to a dangerous sheen. Lindsay hadn’t left the sewing machine all day, and Noah, it seemed, hadn’t been heard from all week. Cici didn’t blame him for staying out of the way. What worried her was that in only a matter of days, this kind of chaos had become the new normal.
When the telephone tucked into her back pocket rang yet again, she was tempted not to answer it. When she heard her daughter’s voice, she almost sank with relief.
“Lori, please, please, please say you’re coming home this weekend.” Cici propped the cordless phone between her shoulder and ear and lifted the gallon bucket of water with one hand while she unlatched the gate to the chicken yard with the other. Chickens squawked and scattered as she entered, and she did an effective little dance to shoo them away from the gate with one foot while trying not to step in chicken waste with the other. “Remember that great idea you had to turn this place into a wedding venue? And how hard you worked to make sure the people at Virginian at Home knew about ‘catering and special events’?”
“It worked, didn’t it?” replied Lori chirpily.
“We’re killing ourselves here! A little help?”
“I’m in Research and Development,” Lori informed her. “You guys are in Manufacturing.”
“Thanks a lot.”
Cici splashed water into the trough and scuffed her shoe over a patch of grass to clean it. She picked up a rake.
“Mom, where are you? This connection is terrible!”
“I’m cleaning the chicken yard,” Cici answered. “Do you see what I’ve been reduced to? Carrying a cordless telephone around the farm because someone has to be on office duty while Lindsay is sewing and Bridget is making wild peach blossom chutney or whatever it is she’s experimenting with now.” She raked the pile of chicken manure into a corner of the yard, to be collected later, and hung the rake back on its hook. “ Your chickens, I might add, which you were so determined to have.”
“Aunt Bridget liked them, too,” Lori defended. “Besides, think how much you’re saving on eggs.”
“Not enough to pay for their feed. And we’re all getting high cholesterol.”
“That’s a myth. Eggs do not give you high cholesterol.”
“So, now you’re premed?” Cici exited the chicken yard and latched the gate.
“Mom,” Lori said, “I’m excited about the wedding and I can’t wait to get back there and
So far this day had included for Cici twelve phone calls, eight e-mails, four faxes, and a trip to the hardware store. She had finished framing out the dance floor and was waiting for the rest of the materials to be delivered so that she could start placing the floorboards. It was after noon, and she was feeding the chickens because no one else had had time to do it, and she still had the table rounds to make.
Every surface in the kitchen was filled with sample dishes, pots were steaming on the burners, and Bridget was madly whisking, slicing, and basting. Ida Mae was sulking about something and taking out her pique on the windows, which she was polishing to a dangerous sheen. Lindsay hadn’t left the sewing machine all day, and Noah, it seemed, hadn’t been heard from all week. Cici didn’t blame him for staying out of the way. What worried her was that in only a matter of days, this kind of chaos had become the new normal.
When the telephone tucked into her back pocket rang yet again, she was tempted not to answer it. When she heard her daughter’s voice, she almost sank with relief.
“Lori, please, please, please say you’re coming home this weekend.” Cici propped the cordless phone between her shoulder and ear and lifted the gallon bucket of water with one hand while she unlatched the gate to the chicken yard with the other. Chickens squawked and scattered as she entered, and she did an effective little dance to shoo them away from the gate with one foot while trying not to step in chicken waste with the other. “Remember that great idea you had to turn this place into a wedding venue? And how hard you worked to make sure the people at Virginian at Home knew about ‘catering and special events’?”
“It worked, didn’t it?” replied Lori chirpily.
“We’re killing ourselves here! A little help?”
“I’m in Research and Development,” Lori informed her. “You guys are in Manufacturing.”
“Thanks a lot.”
Cici splashed water into the trough and scuffed her shoe over a patch of grass to clean it. She picked up a rake.
“Mom, where are you? This connection is terrible!”
“I’m cleaning the chicken yard,” Cici answered. “Do you see what I’ve been reduced to? Carrying a cordless telephone around the farm because someone has to be on office duty while Lindsay is sewing and Bridget is making wild peach blossom chutney or whatever it is she’s experimenting with now.” She raked the pile of chicken manure into a corner of the yard, to be collected later, and hung the rake back on its hook. “ Your chickens, I might add, which you were so determined to have.”
“Aunt Bridget liked them, too,” Lori defended. “Besides, think how much you’re saving on eggs.”
“Not enough to pay for their feed. And we’re all getting high cholesterol.”
“That’s a myth. Eggs do not give you high cholesterol.”
“So, now you’re premed?” Cici exited the chicken yard and latched the gate.
“Mom,” Lori said, “I’m excited about the wedding and I can’t wait to get back there and
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