By Susan McCorkindale
It's been 4 years given that Susan's husband dragged her kicking and screaming from their cozy, vast urban East Coast lifestyles to a farm in Virginia farm animals nation. Susan's adjusting as most sensible she will, which isn't effortless contemplating she's been identified to put on Manolos in manure. She'll by no means be a true farm lady, yet as readers will see from her facet- splitting confessions, she's faking it simply advantageous.
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Extra info for 500 Acres and No Place to Hide: More Confessions of a Counterfeit Farm Girl
And it was my turn. The next thing I knew, the horse and I were cantering up the chute in the darkness, then out into the blinding lights of Madison Square Garden with thousands of people shouting and cheering, and children swinging little ﬂashlights, and the band playing louder than ever, and the smell of popcorn and horse and cow manure in the air. I closed off my mind and did what Danny had told me to do—I could see him in the center on King, bearing the ﬂag of the United States—while my horse, just as Danny had promised, cantered round the ring, did his ﬁgure eights, stopped when the band stopped playing, waited motionless while Danny and King did their number, then carried me safely round the ring again and down the chute.
Dinner, when we sat down to it, was formal, with perhaps two dozen people seated at a long table, in the middle of which was a sterling silver statue of a horse and polo player about four feet high, and place-card holders in the form of small crossed sterling silver polo mallets. The food was from Jimmy Quick’s farm, and when the roast beef was served, he not only told us the name of the Black Angus steer it had come from but also recited its pedigree. Although the dining room was full of black servants, Quick inveighed at length against civil rights demonstrators, occasionally asking one of the servants what he or they thought of “outsiders stirring up the colored community,” and whether people weren’t happy and well treated just as things were—a display doubtless put on for the beneﬁt of those of us who were visitors from the North, then almost de rigueur at social occasions below the MasonDixon line.
I admitted that I did not. Quick smiled shrewdly. “No, I didn’t think so,” he said, less amiable now. “It takes guts, polo does. ” With that, he dismissed me, waving his cigar like a wand. I had the curious sense that Quick had seen through me—had understood that I was skating on a reputation acquired by a couple of lucky rides, in which terror and sheer stupidity had contrived to prevent anybody from noticing my incompetence. I reﬂected, as we moved in “to join the ladies,” that in its own way this was a kind of privilege, not just a look at a vanishing world but an opportunity to see the horse in a new light, as a symbol of social opportunity and a sign of wealth.
500 Acres and No Place to Hide: More Confessions of a Counterfeit Farm Girl by Susan McCorkindale