The Bucolic Plague: How Two Manhattanites Became Gentlemen Farmers: An Unconventional Memoir - Plot & Excerpts
The voice was crackly and broken on the other end of the phone.I stepped outside on the porch to see if I could get a better signal. Not much, but a little better.“Happ…birth…ay,” Brent repeated.“Thanks,” I answered. I didn’t know what else to say. He was clearly calling me on my birthday as a formality. As long as we still shared a mortgage—two, actually—it probably seemed like a good idea to celebrate the fact that the person who shared half your debt was still alive.Then, either because he was calling from Martha’s jet or because the Beekman never had a strong cell signal, the call dropped. Either way, it was a relief to both of us. We’d fulfilled our respective obligations. His: to go through the formalities of our relationship. And mine: to turn thirty-nine with a respectable amount of dignity and forced good cheer.Since my birthday fell on Labor Day weekend, I came upstate alone to celebrate on the farm. While I wasn’t thrilled about being alone to celebrate the first moments of my thirty-ninth year on the planet, I was happy to have the farm all to myself.
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