Things I've Learned in Virginia

1. If the wheelbarrow starts going down the hill really fast and you’re losing control, just drop it and hold on. You’ll skid a couple of feet and then stop. If it’s a really steep hill and you’re heading for something you’d prefer not to crash into—a tree, the pond, the manure pile—just drop it, hold on, and sit. That should do it. (Spray & Wash is not necessarily going to take all the orange out of the seat of your pants.)

2. Do not park a full wheelbarrow laterally on a path that zigzags down a hill because it will fall over the minute you take your hand off the handle to scratch your nose and all your hard work will go tumbling down to the bottom and you will say F-it and leave it there. Park straight, facing down.

3. All these years I’ve been eating rutabagas, not turnips. I’m still traumatized over that. My whole life my mother said they were turnips. When I confronted her about this deception, she acted all nonchalant, like it was no big deal. “Yeah? So? They’re really rutabagas. We just call them turnips.” She didn’t care one iota when I told her how embarrassed I was when I bragged to Pearl about my delicious family recipe for mashed turnips and she informed me, “Why Debi, them aren’t turnips at all. You’re getting your root vegetables all mixed up, bless your heart.”

4. When someone says “Bless your heart,” that means you’re a moron.

5. The mayor is not actually a crazy person who runs amok, crashing through fences all over town, trampling people’s lawns and gardens like a madman. The mayor is a mare, Wesley Bell’s sorrel broodmare who thinks the grass is greener on the other side of the fence and can’t be kept contained because the minute the electric fence goes out, she knows it.

6. Electric fences go out on a regular basis in Virginia. Or in the country, of which Virginia is mostly, agriculture being our number one industry. Of course some mortgage lenders (Fairway Independent Mortgage Corporation) refuse to make loans on homes in agricultural areas even though we gave them all that money to do so--check out my story Bad News--in effect discriminating against country folks. But that is neither here nor there. The point is, the electric goes out in Virginia regularly and most people have generators. Some have them hardwired into their houses, it happens so often. We’ve been lucky; it’s only happened to us a couple of times and not for long so I’ve never had the chance to pull the generator out. And Kurt would have to be home if I did need it because I have no idea what to do. But I have it just in case. It’s next to the power washer, which we also don’t use.

7. In addition to generators, people in Virginia also have scanners. They listen to the calls that come in to the fire house or first aid in the beginning of winter when everyone is firing up their woodstoves for the first time and they didn’t get them cleaned first. Or when someone calls the ambulance for Brandy Hinkle because she took too many prescription drugs again, all those popular ones you see on TV, because she has nothing better to do than invent aches and pains because she’s bored out of her mind since she refuses to work or go to school and she got married when she was eighteen-years-old to someone else who refuses to work or go to school. It’s a vicious cycle over there and the only excitement is when the ambulance comes. As far as the cops, you rarely hear anything on the scanner about them. At least in these parts. Well, other than the occasional shooting. Because everyone has guns around here. Pearl keeps a portable scanner right in her breast pocket like a pack of cigarettes just so she can stay on top of things. If there’s anything I need to know, she calls me.

8. Bobcats mating sound suspiciously like women being murdered. That’s when I called the cops.

9. Tall grass is hay.

10. Baptist churches have white people.

11. Handy things. Like how to give shots, clean sheaths, stack hay, bake pies, and grow vegetables, all things I used to pay someone else to do in New Jersey. But I still can’t put new string in the weed-whacker. And I don’t know how to start that generator.

12. Just because there are old farmhouses all over the place doesn’t mean I am going to find anything good at garage sales. This is the hardest place for garage saling with the exception of Oklahoma. The people will not part with their old stuff or they have incredible patience and will sit around till the cows come home waiting for the right person to come along who will overpay for a jadeite sugar bowl because they’ve been looking for that exact piece for ten years. Either way, you will find Fisher Price toys, NASCAR collectibles, VCRs that don’t work, baskets, old shoes, brass fixtures and stained Tupperware at garage sales but no Roseville unless you want to pay an arm and a leg.

13. Testicles on dogs are the norm. When I first moved down here and started seeing all the testicles, it was so weird to me I might as well have been seeing dogs with antennas coming out of their heads. Some people actually think they’re going to make money breeding dogs, but the real reason is they just want to get some puppies because they’re cute. But they don’t think they’re cute enough to warrant a trip down to the local dog pound to save one, and certainly not cute enough to stop adding to the mess. Thousands and thousands of dogs get put to sleep in Virginia every year and even more cats.

14. They sell liver-and-onions at the local restaurant down here. It’s a buffet-style place called Chitwood’s Home Cooking and the last time I was in there, the whole pan was scarfed up faster than the one that contained the marshmallow salad. I couldn’t believe my eyes. People actually choose liver-and-onions? I thought liver-and-onions was something mean old aunts gave to kids in the 1950s and the kids spit it out when no one was looking. I thought liver-and-onions went out of style with kerchiefs and aprons.

15. Speaking of meat, people claim they hunt deer for the meat. To put food on the table. Trying to be open-minded, I tasted it. It tasted like crap. They say that’s because it wasn’t prepared right. It has to be cooked just right. Anything that has to be cooked just right to be edible is crap. And if it’s so good, why doesn’t Walmart sell it? Why isn’t it flying off the shelves down there? Why isn’t it in a stainless steel pan next to the liver-and-onions down at Chitwood’s? Because it’s crap.

16. Bulls are the boy cows who can mate. Steers are boy cows who are castrated like what should be happening to all the dogs around here. Heifers are the girl cows. I’m still not sure what that thingy is that’s hanging from their bellies. Is it a penis or is it something to do with the bellybutton? And you can’t go by the horns. Both boys and girls—sometimes they have them, sometimes they don’t. Hence, I can’t tell a boy cow from a girl cow.

Collecting Wheelbarrows

I’m sorry I haven’t been on in a while but I told you what I do here. Now picture that with a foot of snow. Then mud. Then a family crisis involving an invitation or lack thereof, accusations, hurt feelings and good old-fashioned gossip. And me trying to mediate. Trying to fix it. Talk about bogging down.

I finally broke down and bought another wheelbarrow to replace the broken-wheeled one. I couldn’t take it anymore. The only thing is, it’s too small. So now I have five wheelbarrows. None quite right. There’s the red child’s wheelbarrow that I told Kelly came with her pony and which I now keep on its side filled with petunias like it just tipped over when my dwarf gardener let go to swat at a fly buzzing around his head. On second thought, since tomorrow is St. Paddy’s Day and me being Irish, let’s call him a Leprechaun gardener.


There's the rusty metal one which we use for mixing cement, and in the old days, making bran mashes for the horses, but is too shallow for more than a couple of loads of manure—hardly worth taking out of the shed. Maybe I’ll plant some petunias in that one too.

There’s the broken-wheeled one, which was my favorite, not too big, not too small, but hard to push. And the Big Mama, my dually, which I got for Christmas one year. It’s made out of bright yellow plastic like a hard hat and good for moving around bulky things like bales of hay or a tumble of kids, but not for manure because it’s hard to dump due to the double wheels. Plus, it has a flat tire. It was the subject of my story last summer about how everything is broken around here and now it’s almost summer again and it is still broken.

Since, in my excitement, I already threw some manure into the new wheelbarrow before I realized it was too small, I can’t return it. So I told Kelly I had a surprise for her. I made her close her eyes and led her out to the barn. “Okay, open them.” I waved my hand. “Wa-la! Now it’ll be easier to pick up manure!”

She wasn’t impressed. Maybe she thought I was going to unveil a pony. “Do I have to pick up manure today? I just picked up manure yesterday and I have a lot of homework and I don’t feel good and I really would have liked a Breyer instead. Can’t I pick up the dog poop?” Then she bust out crying. I was shocked. What kid wouldn’t want a brand spanking new wheelbarrow?

That’s the interesting thing. And sometimes frustrating, especially when concerning passionate subjects like stimulus packages or favorite Idol contestants—everybody is different. Just because I get turned on by wheelbarrows doesn’t mean you like them. Maybe your thing is seed spreaders. Or bamboo rakes. Or something totally useless like jewelry. Which I don’t get at all. There’s not a lot of bang for the buck there. I can’t even see what’s on somebody’s fingers without putting on my glasses, never mind being able to tell whether I’m looking at an actual diamond or a chunk of glass. I really couldn’t tell you. It could be a rock from the backyard for all I know. No, I’d rather get a new coat, leopard maybe, or a suede jacket with fringe—something everybody’s going to notice. Perhaps a new pair of cowboy boots. In red. Now that’s got the wow factor and no need to conspicuously stroke my chin or tap my fingers on my forehead to get someone to notice what I’m wearing.

Therefore, except for some silver-and-turquoise jewelry that I got in Arizona and an antique amethyst necklace that belonged to my great grandmother—burglars take note—the safe is empty. Well, I do have something. I had to let Kurt get me an engagement ring and a wedding band. We argued about the size of the engagement ring. “It should be bigger.” “It should be smaller.” “Bigger.” “No smaller.” “Bigger.” “Smaller.” The lady behind the counter, who stood with her arms crossed and a pair of eyeglasses on a cord around her neck, shook her head. She’d never seen anything like it before. What?—couples always agree on the rings? No. But usually it’s the opposite. Usually it’s the woman who pressures the man for a diamond at least as big as her sister’s, and certainly not any smaller than the next door neighbor’s; but no, not this time. Kurt was the one who wanted it bigger. I just wanted to get a token chip and then spend the rest on something good—like a saddle.

Kurt said, “People will think I don’t love you!”

So we compromised and got something, not too big and not too small, kind of like my favorite wheelbarrow.

Now, if only I could get the feuding family to come together. But I can’t fix everything. I can’t fix broken wheelbarrows and I can’t fix people.

Wood and Weeds

Two days ago we were out there doing wood. Kurt was splitting it and Kelly and I were loading it into two canvas bags we keep for wood carrying and hauling it up onto the deck near the sliding glass doors where it will be easy to get when we run out. We carried the bags to a red wheelbarrow at the top of the stairs and then rolled it the rest of the way. The hard wheel on the wheelbarrow went bum, bum, bum, bum, over the wooden 2 X 6 floor. The wheel on this wheelbarrow doesn’t have air so it never goes flat. This is the wheelbarrow that we normally use for things like mixing cement or potting soil. It’s got a shallow metal basin pitted with rust and low metal handles with rubber grips like bike handles. It’s not the most comfortable thing to push because of the hard wheel and how low it is. You wouldn’t want to be using it long term.

The one I use on a daily basis has a nice, air-filled tire and two long hardwood handles smooth and shiny from me using it so much. If I keep the tire filled, it bounces easily over all kinds of terrain. I fill this wheelbarrow with manure three times every morning. Sometimes I use it to transport weeds or bags of grain. I keep an empty supplement bucket hanging on one of the handles that I fill with junk I may find out in the gully—I was tired of sticking shards of glass and muddy plastic fragments in my pockets and then forgetting about it and washing them in the washing machine. So I thought of the bucket. It is even good for putting your hat in if you get too hot while you’re picking up manure. When I was sneaking cigarettes out behind the tobacco shed, I hid the pack in the bucket. It’s good for all kinds of things.

But my favorite wheelbarrow is the dually. I got that one for Christmas one year. It came with a big red ribbon. It is big enough to put a pony inside. It is yellow plastic and has two tires, hence the name dually, and two massive wooden handles you can barely get your hands around. It is the big mama of wheelbarrows. You don’t have to bend at all and it rolls like it’s on shocks. The only bad thing about it is it’s hard to dump because of the two wheels. You can’t just flip it over and shake it back and forth like I do with my regular manure wheelbarrow. I use the big mama for hay. Hay takes up a lot of space. Once a week I fork up all the loose hay in the shed where I break open the bales and bring it outside for the horses. If I didn’t have the dually, I’d have to make many more trips. But I can fit a lot in there. I have also used it to bring Kelly places. She hangs her legs and arms over the sides like she’s in an old fashioned bathtub and cries, “Go faster!” We tried to get the Big Stupid in it one time but he got all giddy and excited like he was caught on the couch and jumped right out and ran around the yard in circles with his tongue flapping and his tail clamped onto his butt.

I also have a miniature wheelbarrow. I bought it for Kelly back when I was trying to break her in right, when she was three and still believed me when I said picking up horse poop was a lot of fun. It is an exact replica of my red metal wheelbarrow but about the only thing you can use it for is decorative purposes. I have it half buried in the mulch in the flowerbed in front of the house and I plant petunias in it because they spread and it looks like someone was pushing it and then it tipped over and all the flowers spilled out.

Today I pushed the regular manure wheelbarrow up front and filled it with weeds. Even though we were stacking wood just two days ago and burning it like there was no tomorrow, it’s seventy degrees now and there is something crawling around the foundation that looks like chickweed but I don’t know what it is. I know it’s not lawn, that I can tell you.

You never get a break on the farm. One minute you’re doing wood and the next minute you’re pulling weeds. Sometimes it even overlaps. Tomorrow we’re supposed to get an ice storm. They’re already announcing the school closings on the TV. Eldon is out there right now pushing the spreader, weeding and feeding the lawn. I don’t know how I’m going to break the news to Kurt. I could try telling him getting wood and pulling up weeds is a lot of fun but he’s not three-years-old anymore. He won’t believe me.