I saw all that land not being used, all those barns not filled with livestock, a cold stone house filled with flowers but no other form of life, and always felt it was a waste.
“Well, I’m glad to see it’s going to good use now,” I said.
“Agreed.”
“And Leo is the guy that delivers all the produce? Well, that’s great. Just great.”
“Agreed.”
“Do they have a stand at the farmers’ market?”
“They do.”
“Well, maybe I’ll check it out. It’s still on Saturdays, right?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Might be a good idea to see what they’ve got in season, for the diner.”
“Agreed.” My mother sipped her coffee, a dreamy look on her face. Must be thinking about her amazing race.
“Let’s go home,” I said. “You can make me some of your vegetable soup, and then I’m going to bed as soon as the sun sets.” I dragged myself out of the booth and grabbed my bag. My jeans literally creaked as I walked, stiff with dried potato and snap pea water, reminding me of the tumble I’d taken with the cutest farmer this side of Little House on the Prairie.
“Why are your jeans creaking?” my mother asked.
Nothing, and I repeat nothing, gets by her. Except final due notices from the electric company. And property taxes. And renewing her driver’s license. But walk in the kitchen and find your daughter spread-eagled on the floor with some random guy’s face in her lap, while nuts and sugar snap peas skate around? She won’t miss that. Or the subsequent jean creak.
“It’s nothing. Let’s go home.”
I’m assuming she also didn’t miss my blush.
I drove in my car, my mother drove hers, and despite my exhaustion, I used the few minutes of quiet (quiet! I’d almost forgotten what it sounded like, after the diner chaos) to take stock. Some things in town had clearly changed since I was home, and I tried to really see it.
It was beautiful, actually. Drive through Bailey Falls pretty much any time of the year and you’ll convince yourself that there’s not a prettier town on the planet. Autumn in upstate New York? Forget it. The flames of orange and yellow and red that raced through the forest and turned everything into a blanket of crispy, crunchy, kicky leaves—there’s nothing like it. Except maybe the winter. When the snow piles for miles, and everything takes on a hushed quality, all stars and silver and moonlight. Then again, spring was pretty extraordinary, when the apple blossoms pillowed out, and the air was soft and warm and filled with that gorgeous growing green scent. Yeah, plenty going for it in the scenery department.
So why was I always so reluctant to go home, and why was I so adamant about making sure my mom knew this was temporary? It wasn’t to be hurtful . . .
My eyes swept over the quaint and cute once again. It was just that Bailey Falls was like quicksand to me. Like stepping into muck in your Wellies, and trying to get out of it left you with a cold, wet foot and your shoe behind you in the puddle. It was like a whirlpool, a black hole, a Norman Rockwellian SuckSpace that was nearly impossible to escape.
That small-town Americana that everyone seemed to want nowadays? I’d grown up in it. And for a shy, dorky, apt-to-trip-over-her-own-feet teenager, I was beyond ready for an adventure when it was time to leave home. And though I hadn’t lived there since I was eighteen, there was like a tiny rubber band tucked into the back of my pants, and no matter where I went or how far I traveled . . . Helloooo, Roxie . . . your past is calling . . . that small town was ready to snap me back eventually. And sure enough, here I was.
I certainly can’t say I had a bad childhood. But I grew up early and fast, and over the years the resentment grew. The classic child-becomes-the-parent scenario. Flaky parent and studious child: watch the disconcerting yet sometimes charming storyline unfold on tonight’s episode of What’d Your Parents Do to You? I knew it, I recognized it, I could see my issues coming a mile away. Especially when I was halfway through my twenties and my mother was halfway through her fifties, and I was still cleaning up her messes.
I was California Roxie now, but I was secretly scared to death that I’d morph back into Bailey Falls Roxie here. I’d defined myself in California, and I was extremely reluctant to live again in a town that defined me only as Trudy Callahan’s daughter, the one who blushes a lot.
This really couldn’t have come at a better time, though . . .
Okay—so I just wouldn’t let it get under my skin. I’d do this for her, but this was it.
“It’s good pie. Really good pie. Lard?” I asked my mother later that evening. She’d brought home the last of a pie from the diner for dessert.
“Pardon me?”
“Is there lard in the crust?” I asked again.
I’d come outside after dinner to clear my head, get some fresh air, and of course, she’d flitted after me like a moth. I realized shortly after I entered the house that my dream of going to bed with the sun was a pipe dream. But I had to admit, there was great air in the Hudson Valley—far better than that in Los Angeles.
“Oh, you’d have to ask Katie about the pie, dear; she makes it.” My mother scraped her plate clean with the back of her fork, getting the last little bit.
“Have you ever asked her why she only makes cherry?” I asked, also scraping the plate clean. It was really good.
“No.”
“Why not? Didn’t you ever think that maybe, since the cherry pie is so fantastic, she might make other pies? Just as good, if not better?” I asked, licking my fork.
“Well, I’m glad to see it’s going to good use now,” I said.
“Agreed.”
“And Leo is the guy that delivers all the produce? Well, that’s great. Just great.”
“Agreed.”
“Do they have a stand at the farmers’ market?”
“They do.”
“Well, maybe I’ll check it out. It’s still on Saturdays, right?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Might be a good idea to see what they’ve got in season, for the diner.”
“Agreed.” My mother sipped her coffee, a dreamy look on her face. Must be thinking about her amazing race.
“Let’s go home,” I said. “You can make me some of your vegetable soup, and then I’m going to bed as soon as the sun sets.” I dragged myself out of the booth and grabbed my bag. My jeans literally creaked as I walked, stiff with dried potato and snap pea water, reminding me of the tumble I’d taken with the cutest farmer this side of Little House on the Prairie.
“Why are your jeans creaking?” my mother asked.
Nothing, and I repeat nothing, gets by her. Except final due notices from the electric company. And property taxes. And renewing her driver’s license. But walk in the kitchen and find your daughter spread-eagled on the floor with some random guy’s face in her lap, while nuts and sugar snap peas skate around? She won’t miss that. Or the subsequent jean creak.
“It’s nothing. Let’s go home.”
I’m assuming she also didn’t miss my blush.
I drove in my car, my mother drove hers, and despite my exhaustion, I used the few minutes of quiet (quiet! I’d almost forgotten what it sounded like, after the diner chaos) to take stock. Some things in town had clearly changed since I was home, and I tried to really see it.
It was beautiful, actually. Drive through Bailey Falls pretty much any time of the year and you’ll convince yourself that there’s not a prettier town on the planet. Autumn in upstate New York? Forget it. The flames of orange and yellow and red that raced through the forest and turned everything into a blanket of crispy, crunchy, kicky leaves—there’s nothing like it. Except maybe the winter. When the snow piles for miles, and everything takes on a hushed quality, all stars and silver and moonlight. Then again, spring was pretty extraordinary, when the apple blossoms pillowed out, and the air was soft and warm and filled with that gorgeous growing green scent. Yeah, plenty going for it in the scenery department.
So why was I always so reluctant to go home, and why was I so adamant about making sure my mom knew this was temporary? It wasn’t to be hurtful . . .
My eyes swept over the quaint and cute once again. It was just that Bailey Falls was like quicksand to me. Like stepping into muck in your Wellies, and trying to get out of it left you with a cold, wet foot and your shoe behind you in the puddle. It was like a whirlpool, a black hole, a Norman Rockwellian SuckSpace that was nearly impossible to escape.
That small-town Americana that everyone seemed to want nowadays? I’d grown up in it. And for a shy, dorky, apt-to-trip-over-her-own-feet teenager, I was beyond ready for an adventure when it was time to leave home. And though I hadn’t lived there since I was eighteen, there was like a tiny rubber band tucked into the back of my pants, and no matter where I went or how far I traveled . . . Helloooo, Roxie . . . your past is calling . . . that small town was ready to snap me back eventually. And sure enough, here I was.
I certainly can’t say I had a bad childhood. But I grew up early and fast, and over the years the resentment grew. The classic child-becomes-the-parent scenario. Flaky parent and studious child: watch the disconcerting yet sometimes charming storyline unfold on tonight’s episode of What’d Your Parents Do to You? I knew it, I recognized it, I could see my issues coming a mile away. Especially when I was halfway through my twenties and my mother was halfway through her fifties, and I was still cleaning up her messes.
I was California Roxie now, but I was secretly scared to death that I’d morph back into Bailey Falls Roxie here. I’d defined myself in California, and I was extremely reluctant to live again in a town that defined me only as Trudy Callahan’s daughter, the one who blushes a lot.
This really couldn’t have come at a better time, though . . .
Okay—so I just wouldn’t let it get under my skin. I’d do this for her, but this was it.
“It’s good pie. Really good pie. Lard?” I asked my mother later that evening. She’d brought home the last of a pie from the diner for dessert.
“Pardon me?”
“Is there lard in the crust?” I asked again.
I’d come outside after dinner to clear my head, get some fresh air, and of course, she’d flitted after me like a moth. I realized shortly after I entered the house that my dream of going to bed with the sun was a pipe dream. But I had to admit, there was great air in the Hudson Valley—far better than that in Los Angeles.
“Oh, you’d have to ask Katie about the pie, dear; she makes it.” My mother scraped her plate clean with the back of her fork, getting the last little bit.
“Have you ever asked her why she only makes cherry?” I asked, also scraping the plate clean. It was really good.
“No.”
“Why not? Didn’t you ever think that maybe, since the cherry pie is so fantastic, she might make other pies? Just as good, if not better?” I asked, licking my fork.
