Dedication
To my Jeffrey.
You turned every daydream into a reality. I love you.
And to Gus and George.
I wanted you my whole life and I’m so glad you’re mine.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Preface
Prologue
Part One: Plant
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Part Two: Grow
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Part Three: Harvest
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Acknowledgments
Photo Section
About the Author
Copyright
About the Publisher
Preface
Dear Diary,
Last weekend, Jeffrey and I got married. Really and truly married. It was the culmination of a decade of partnership, trial and error, and most importantly, effort. For years we had called each other “husband” and “wife.” We lived like we were married, raised our kids as a unit, built homes and a future together. But we knew that we’d sidestepped that very real rite of passage.
It was fine. Livable. Happy. But our life at Mischief Farm demanded better of us. We’d found a sanctuary where authenticity mattered. The truths at the farm were concrete. The fields had to be mowed. The wood had to be chopped. The gardens had to be weeded. And the animals had to be fed. We wanted to be one of those truths.
So, on a bright, blue-skied October afternoon—very much like the day we first laid eyes on Mischief Farm, with the kaleidoscope of hues that autumn brings—we exchanged vows in front of a colorful collection of characters from our life. We chose the Bowery Hotel, a standard haunt of ours, as we were drawn to the history and mischief of the neighborhood. The Bowery is the oldest road in New York City, from the Dutch word bouwerij, meaning farm. All roads lead back to the farm.
I feel strong. When we made the choice to cast off the skin of our former lives, it was with tremendous uncertainty. We barely knew each other. But this place and this life were worth the risk. They were worth the hardships we faced. They were worth every effort. Our wedding wasn’t the beginning of a life together. It was a celebration and a thank-you to the people and places that shaped our past ten years.
Love is like farm work. It requires consistency, and imagination. Your body will ache and you will be fatigued, but there is no greater reward than seeing the fruits of your labor.
In a parting gift to our guests, I included packets of Mischief Farm Marigolds, seeds I’d sown from my own gardens. I hope they go out there in the world and grow and bloom and multiply with all the love from which they sprang.
Hilarie Burton Morgan
10.13.19
Prologue
“What kind of farm did you grow up on?” Folks always throw that question at me any time they find out about Mischief Farm. Oh you know, the lower-middle-class kind, which grows swing sets and grubby children and is surrounded by a chain-link fence. My childhood was fantastically suburban. Before Mischief Farm, the only farming I had done had been through literary adventuring. Green Gables. Little House on the Prairie. I longed for the landscape of Wuthering Heights. Hell, even Animal Farm held a certain appeal.
Both of my parents had agricultural experience, though. Their stories were fables in our family. My father didn’t wax poetic about his childhood of manual labor. His tales were more cautionary. We never ate lamb, because his family had kept sheep for a while. It scarred him. Then there were the years they dealt in chickens. Equally scarring. Eggs must be scrambled to ultimate tightness, and any meat is to be cooked about four levels past well done. Hell or high water, we were gonna be spared from any barnyard diseases. It was clear that farming was not a pleasurable career path for my father’s family. Just a way to scrape by and keep seven hungry kids fed.
My mother, on the other hand, comes from real-deal farmers in Iowa. Multigenerational corn and soybean and pig farmers with huge tracts of land. The first time I visited my great aunt’s house on the farm in Iowa, I found it exotic. They had a hammock at the edge of a cornfield, and a dozen barn cats skittered around. My three brothers chased the cats against the backdrop of sunset, and I grabbed one of the kittens and settled into the hammock. Looking out on the cornfield, I marveled that this is what they woke up to every day. Even when I was a kid dreaming of being a showbiz dame like Doris Day or Debbie Reynolds or Katharine Hepburn, I held on to this vision of farm life.
I grew up in the little town of Sterling Park, Virginia, population nine thousand. I kept the pace of the Blue Ridge Mountains. I could hear cows lowing from my high school. It was a pastoral community. And then Amazon opened a huge headquarters in Northern Virginia, right in my little town, and suddenly an influx of two hundred thousand people completely erased the childhood that I had grown up with.
Jeffrey grew up in Kirkland, Washington. Once upon a time it was a tiny waterfront suburb of Seattle. He camped with the Boy Scouts, rode a mean old pony named Brownie at his grandma’s pig farm, and played in the woods and water of the Pacific Northwest. Then, Boeing visited, saw lots of space and a good quality of life, moved in, and erased those things. So with both of our childhood communities swallowed up by big business, he and I never had the luxury of that fairy tale of raising kids in our hometowns.
Randomly, we found a new hometown: Rhinebeck, New York. A place that felt like we’d known it all along. We marveled that a village like this still existed. So we were aware that when you find a community that nurtures you and your family, it isn’t enough to just live in it; you must also nurture and protect that place and all the people who give you respite, solace, joy, and just enough hell to keep life interesting.
So, folks, this is a love letter. To a town. To a farm. To a man.
Part One
Plant
1
Don’t judge each day by the harvest you reap but by the seeds that you plant.
—Robert Louis Stevenson
The first time we drove into Rhinebeck, I knew I’d found a place I belonged. As we crossed the Kingston Bridge, the world cracked open before us, all sun and sky and river.
A large billboard for the Dutchess County Fair promised livestock and carnival rides and country music acts. A driftwood sculpture that loosely resembled a dinosaur peeped out from behind a few trees as we approached the town. I scratched the hair at the base of Jeff’s skull and kept my hand on his neck. It felt bold. Together for fewer than two years, we hadn’t exactly been in a honeymoon phase. Parenting was hard. Being apart for work was hard. Not having a real place to call home was hard. But riding along side by side, we felt light and hopeful and new. Our five-month-old son, Gus, babbled in his car seat. This felt like a place where things were made. A place that invited possibility.
We rolled through Rhinebeck Village, a tiny Dutch community that reminded me of Pella, Iowa, where my mom’s family was from—skinny buildings stacked up against each other that housed long-established mom-and-pop shops where you went just as much for the camaraderie as for any material goods.
Rhinebeck has only two commercial streets: Route 9, or Mill Street, which has a couple of churches, a post office, and a bank, and Market Street. On the corner stands a handsome brick building with a sign that reads Rhinebeck Department Store. At the crossroads is the Beekman Arms, a stately white inn with black trim and American f
lags snapping in the breeze. It’s the oldest operating inn in the country. George Washington and other revolutionaries stayed there, and the Fourth Regiment of the Continental Army practiced drills on its lawn.
We parked and asked a couple of people where to get a cup of coffee, and they directed us to the candy store on Market Street. We passed one cute painted storefront after another, noticing how the sidewalk was hemmed in by a tidy line of trees whose trunks were surrounded by bursts of colorful flowers. Small crowds of smiling people moved along to a seemingly well-rehearsed choreography: nod, smile, wave at the baby, tip the hat, smile again. Like out of an old musical, the town had a rhythm that made it feel like someone might burst into song at any moment.
At the end of the block, we stepped inside the candy store, a tiny jewel box of a shop, cool and dark and soothing. The shelves were lined with luminescent rows of penny candy. I spotted Cow Tales, which I hadn’t eaten since I was twelve.
A flushed, smiling gentleman with a bush of curly hair chatted easily as he rang us up. “Welcome to town. What brings you guys here?”
“Oh, we’re looking at a house,” Jeff replied.
The man was incandescent. “You guys are gonna love it here. You’re just gonna love it. I moved up from the city too.”
We smiled and thanked him for the coffee, and Jeff patted my rear on the way out the door. He gets handsy when he’s excited. Though I didn’t quite know how yet, I sensed our lives were about to change.
Of all the twists and turns a life takes, driving into Rhinebeck was one of the few turns when I felt truly home. But to make sense of how we got here, I have to back up for a moment and point out the seeds of change that led me here.
Seed One: Loss
The trajectory of my life changed in 2007. At the time, I was working on One Tree Hill and feeling a bit lost. I worked hard all day, then went out and sang karaoke in bars with my friends till closing, then got up early the next day and worked again. And while I was smiling and perfecting my rendition of Dolly Parton’s “Applejack,” I was a miserable girl. My whole life had been an ambitious climb to become a working actor. And I’d done it. So why was I so damn disappointed?
In August, we were shooting a scene down by Cape Fear River. It was one of those big days, with every actor in every scene and a hundred extras. Overwhelmed, I retreated to the air conditioning of my trailer and scrolled through MySpace alerts on my phone.
A buddy from high school—Stan—popped up in my messages. I don’t remember the exact message, but I have a vague recollection of his trying to gently break the news to me. “Hilarie . . . I know it’s been a long time . . . not sure if anyone else has reached out . . . I know you guys were close . . .”
Then he said it. Scott Kirkpatrick had died in Iraq.
My heart skittered in my chest.
In high school, Scott and Stan had been part of the cool, drama-goth-poetry slam circle that I idolized. Scott was two years older than me, and I wanted to do everything just like him, including writing and acting.
Scott and his friends would pick me up after the football games I cheered at, and we’d drive to Clyde’s in Reston, where we’d order a bucket of sweet potato fries and they’d smoke clove cigarettes. We’d work on our tortured poems and go to poetry slams together—me in my cheerleading uniform and them in their big dark trench coats and little Dracula glasses. Scott was the kind of person who made you feel like big, magical things were right around the corner, and you just had to be bold enough to make the turn. We all followed, dutifully.
After graduation, Scott, with his Kurt Cobain hair and lanky gait, became a nationally ranked slam poet and traveled all over the country. Then, after September 11, he joined the army. When I heard the news, I was shocked.
Scott deployed to Iraq and became a sergeant, then got married and was planning to leave the army and come home to his wife. He and I kept in touch via MySpace, where he gave me hell for being on the cover of Maxim with all the girls from One Tree Hill. “What the fuck’s going on Burton? That’s not the girl I know.”
We’d made plans to return to our theater roots and make indie movies together once he got out of the service. The big plan was to do an update of a play we’d done in high school—Dostoyevsky’s The Idiot. I’d begun mapping the story out, filling a spiral notebook with ideas and research.
He was almost done with his tour when somebody shot one of the guys in his squad. Scott and another soldier chased the attacker into a building that had been rigged to explode.
This was a cheat that I couldn’t stand for. Not Scott.
My life took a turn, and I struggled with the grief and unfairness of losing him, his friendship, and the future we had plotted.
I wrangled one day off of work to attend Scott’s funeral at Arlington Cemetery. With its meticulous grounds and stark white headstones set with eerie geometry, it is both one of the most beautiful places I’ve seen in the world and a museum of sadness. A crowd flocked into the chapel, packed tight in the sweltering August heat, dizzy with grief. Scott was eulogized by a higher-up in the army and awarded several honors for his bravery. I grew anxious as the service neared its end; I did not want them to stop talking about my friend.
We were ushered outside to take part in the procession to Scott’s final resting place. Goths and generals side by side. It was a weird, mournful military pageant that Scott would have appreciated.
At his gravesite they played taps, and each note was agony. Don’t end. Don’t end. Don’t end, I thought, not wanting to get back in the car and go on as if everything were normal.
After the funeral, friends and family were invited to Scott’s parents’ place. In the years since we had graduated they’d moved to a little farm. The house had a wide front porch, and there were goats and sheep, and a handsome tractor was prominently displayed. They called it Whack-a-Mole Farm. I didn’t want to leave.
Scott’s death snapped my priorities and goals back into focus. I had spent the previous few years wandering, never really finding my place, but I wanted more. I wanted a family. I wanted a home that could be a refuge and a blank canvas that would allow me to daydream, to take risks, to try and fail and try again. I wanted to push myself every day. I wanted to make every moment intentional. Wake up intentionally. Work intentionally. Eat intentionally. And rest intentionally.
It was time to make a change, so I left One Tree Hill. I’d always wanted to travel and to write, so I started to work on a novel, bought a one-way ticket to Paris, and rented an apartment across from Notre Dame Cathedral.
Before I flew across the Atlantic, I took what I thought would be one last trip to Los Angeles for a few days. I had a handful of meetings, and I wanted to see my friends Jensen and Danneel (our friendship was one of the best things to come from working on One Tree Hill). I’d often slept on their couch, and they listened to me lament about shitty boyfriends and feeling adrift in life. Those two are so damn generous and meddling, so naturally, when I got to LA, they wanted to set me up with a friend of theirs—but they wouldn’t tell me who.
Seed Two: Mr. Morgan
I watched from across the bar as a man dressed all in leather sauntered through the front door. Surely this wasn’t the friend Danneel and Jensen had in mind? Motorcycle helmet in hand, the man hugged them and made very direct eye contact with me as he shook my hand. “I’m Jeffrey.” He had bracelets stacked to his elbows and large silver rings on damn near every finger. I leaned in to Danneel, “Good lord, D. You invited a midlife crisis to dinner!”
Hours later, we closed down that little Irish pub, and then all four of us ended up back at Jeffrey Dean Morgan’s house. He had just bought a huge, beautiful place in Studio City, a Mediterranean beast of a home that had more than five thousand square feet and was the exact opposite of the intimate (and haunted) Victorian I was living in, in Wilmington, North Carolina.
As we entered the house, a dignified lady Rottweiler mix with soulful eyes met me. “This is Bisou,” Jeff said as
I scratched the fur behind Bisou’s ears. She pressed into me and Jeff smiled. “She usually doesn’t like other girls.” Apparently, Bisou had been less than fond of some of his exes.
“Looks like I’m not like other girls.”
Jeff gave us a tour, and when I saw the comedically stereotypical bachelor-pad sheepskin fur on his bed, I rolled my eyes. He swore up and down that it was for Bisou. I believed him, though I didn’t let him know that. I’d seen his Harley, but I also had seen his car as we walked through the garage, a “dad car,” with room for baby seats and dogs and groceries. I was surprised to realize that he hadn’t bought the single-guy party house; he had bought the family home, with bedrooms for kids and a big yard with a lemon tree. As I said goodbye to Jeff that night, I could feel myself becoming more intrigued.
A few hours after we’d said goodbye, I flew back to Wilmington.
Two days later my doorbell rang. A package sat outside, with blocky, masculine handwriting on the FedEx shipping label. No way.
I tore off the seal and out tumbled guidebooks on Paris, Raymond Carver anthologies, and a beautiful, red, leather-bound journal, which Jeffrey had inscribed: “Go nuts. Xoxo jdm, Miss your face.”
There was also a note that read, “For someone I just met, I can’t stop thinking about you.”
Seed Three: The Land of Enchantment
A day later Jeffrey called. “I’ve bought you a plane ticket from Wilmington to New Mexico. I want to take you on a date. This weekend. I packed a suit.”
It was romantic as hell, but my heart dropped into my belly. I was supposed to be leaving for my new life in Paris, not getting tangled up with a leather-wearing, motorcycle-riding, Raymond-Carver-book-sending guy.
Fuck it. I thought. What’s the worst that could happen?
In the days leading up to our first date, we had long, rambling phone calls that lasted until sunrise. I shared so many personal details with him, including the Native American family history I had been uncovering. So when I arrived in New Mexico, Jeffrey didn’t present me with flowers, wine, or chocolates. He gave me a tacked wood quirt with long leather straps, half battle club, half riding whip.
The Rural Diaries Page 1
