500 Acres and No Place to Hide: More Confessions of a by Susan McCorkindale

By Susan McCorkindale

It's been 4 years in view that Susan's husband dragged her kicking and screaming from their cozy, sizeable urban East Coast existence to a farm in Virginia farm animals state. Susan's adjusting as top 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 part- 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

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They will have you riding a red tricycle and wearing a silly hat before too long. I dialed, a little fearfully. The woman is mad at me a lot. I make her mad, being me. The boy never is. I walk in the door, and the boy never looks disappointed in me. CHAPTER ONE In a Cloud of Smoke MAN, I WISH I COULD HAVE SEEN HIM. They say he was slick and pretty in ’55, and when he leaned against his black-and-pearl ’49 Mercury in his white Palm Beach suit and cherry-red necktie, he looked like he got lost on his way to someplace special and pulled off here to ask the way.

They belonged together, light and dark, I once believed. As the clock inched toward noon and the sun flushed out every dark corner of my world, he stood gun-barrel straight and stone sober beside my uncles, cousins and the other men. There would have been hangover in his eyes and in the tremble of his hands around his cigarette, but it wasn’t anything a little taste of liquor wouldn’t heal, once he had shaken free of his wife and kids like a man slipping out of a set of too-tight Sunday clothes.

But she was, or we would have vanished. I walked into the heat of the morning to my truck and drove through the town that had framed our story for a hundred years, past fast-food restaurants and antebellum mansions, rich cousins and poor cousins, waiting for the same parade. I glanced at my phone, knowing that I should check in at home. This is what it is like, I thought, to be the circus bear. You pace your cage till they let you out to do tricks. You talk about tuition, hardwood floors, braces and sometimes algebra, and see how long you can balance on that wobbling ball before you go berserk and eat the crowd.

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