The Bucolic Plague: How Two Manhattanites Became Gentlemen Farmers: An Unconventional Memoir by Josh Kilmer-Purcell Page B

evening before the Fourth found us frantically weeding the formal flower garden well after the sun went down.
    “It’s too dark to see. I’m going inside,” I said, brushing a mosquito off my forearm. I couldn’t help but think that I wouldn’t have needed to if I hadn’t killed so many birds in the netting. “I can’t tell the difference anymore between the crabgrass and the stinging nettles. My hands are on fire.”
    “Just put your gloves back on,” Brent answered. “All there is to do inside is read or go to sleep.”
    “Precisely. It’s a holiday. That’s the definition of time off .”
    “There are no holidays for farmers.”
    “I’d hardly call manicuring peonies ‘farming.’”
    “You would if you were a peony farmer.”
    While I too wanted to make a good impression on our new neighbors, I had a higher tolerance for imperfection than Brent did. Even though I worked to make sure that my ad clients always put their most seductive foot forward, Brent’s job took things a step further. Being surrounded by perfectionist Marthabots all day gave one a warped sense of reality—or perhaps a perfectly smooth sense of a warped reality.
    “Okay. That’s it,” I said ten minutes later. “I’m going to bed.”
    Brent stayed crouched over in front of me, his butt crack gleaming in the moonlight.
    “Okay. You can always get up early tomorrow to finish,” he said.
    It took all the willpower I had not to shove a stinging nettle down his pants.

    “Happy Overt Nationalism Day!” came a booming voice from the driveway. It was Doug and Garth from the hotel, and Michelle, our realtor. The three of them were best friends, and we’d rarely seen them when they weren’t all together. We’d learned that Michelle also resides in the village, next door to Doug and Garth. She lived alone—except for her two giant Bouvier dogs—in an incredibly huge stone mansion at the top of a hill overlooking the valley. She’d come dressed in a stunningly stylish outfit—a polka-dotted vintage dress that flared out just above the knees.
    “We brought you some wine,” Doug said, and then gestured toward Michelle. “And also the spinster on the hill.”
    “And I brought some beer and the fags from the dell,” Michelle responded. She looked around the yard. “Martha isn’t here yet?”
    We laughed, assuming she was joking. But by the confused look on the trio’s faces, we realized she wasn’t.
    “No, Martha’s not coming,” Brent said. “Did someone tell you she was?”
    “Oh, everyone in town thinks she’s coming,” Doug answered. “They’ve been gossiping about it for weeks now.”
    Our party was going to be a disappointment before it even started. I felt like Marcia Brady when she told everyone that she was going to get Davy Jones to appear at the school dance. Except that we hadn’t told anyone anything. Who would seriously think that Martha would make a three-and-a-half-hour drive to the middle of nowhere on the Fourth of July?
    Soon after Doug, Garth, and Michelle’s arrival, Farmer John walked over across his driveway accompanied by an older couple.
    “These are my parents, Harold and Barbara Hall,” John said. They extended their hands.
    “I didn’t know what you might need for your new house, so I sewed up some potholders for you,” Barbara said softly. “Everybody can use potholders.”
    Inside the tissue she handed me were three beautifully handsewn potholders, made with fabric depicting the same perennials found in our flower garden.
    “These are beautiful,” I said, marveling at their craftsmanship. In the city they could’ve sold at a folk art fair for at least fifty dollars.
    “You boys are certainly doing a good job with the farm,” she said.
    “It’s mostly John,” I said. “I don’t know what we’d do without him.” Gay men know that the way to a woman’s heart is through her son.
    “Well, he says you two are some of the hardest-working people he’s seen,” she added.