We’d spent all of five minutes on the farm, and my three days with Cat had gotten off to a great start.
We crossed the road and Cat went to her car and got in the driver’s seat. When I asked her what she was doing, she looked puzzled and asked, “Aren’t we going to drive up now?”
“Drive? I thought I mentioned that. We have to walk from here on.” I pointed out the paired wheel ruts, the ground humped high between.
We unloaded her little backpack and a large duffel and her purse and a huge rolled Coleman sleeping bag and a fat copy of the Boston Globe and the twelve-pack of Heineken. Cat’s flip-flops proved unworkable when we hit the first steep part, so we stopped for her to dig some running shoes out of her luggage. The manure odor swelled up from the fields here—a dark, deeply fermented smell that I’d learned to tolerate but Cat almost gagged on. A couple of deerflies found us, swinging in tight elliptical orbits and landing surreptitiously to bite, and I realized that my insect repellent was up at the camp.
Cat stayed game, though. When we started walking again and the flies didn’t leave us, she growled at one of them: “Keep it up, asshole. I am going to squish your guts out of your crispy little exoskeleton. Believe it.” But we couldn’t swat them with our arms so full. The best we could do was to toss our hair. One got in a good long suck just behind Cat’s ear before I spotted it and elbowed it away.
Cat was fit, but slogging on uneven ground, steeply uphill, carrying armfuls of irregularly shaped things, was not easy for her. The twelve-pack was particularly hard to clutch. We had to sit and rest our arms. The bright side was that with our hands free we were able to take several deerflies out of the gene pool.
And it gave me a chance to show off the valley. From the first hairpin turn of the track, you get a lovely overview of the farm. Looking to the right, you have a longer view over the fields and copses and hillside forests. You can follow the meander of the stream on the far side of Brassard’s land, and then, as the valley broadens in the distance, a few silos and, beyond them, several strata of higher hills, hazed successively paler blue even on clear days.
Cat nodded approvingly. “It’s not The Sound of Music, but I can see how this could grow on you.”
Up at the camp, we dropped her stuff and had beers. We sat on my fireside logs as she caught me up on her life and our immediate circle of friends. But the blackflies began to find us, more and more until it seemed we were in the center of an aerial dogfight between scores of tiny fighter planes. We sprayed each other with repellent, got some on the lips of our beer cans, spat when we drank again. Cat went to pee and came back with dirt on her elbows that told me she had found the woods squat difficult. I had, too, at first: brace your legs on either side of the hole, drop your pants into a wad around your ankles, hunker down, try not to lose your balance, hold the clothing out of the way so you don’t piss on it or your heels. It takes practice.
We went for a walk; I introduced her to my spring, and we brought back water for cooking and washing. As we talked, I began to assemble the campfire. I had planned our first dinner with the idea of impressing Cat that you could live in Stone Age conditions yet still enjoy decent cuisine. So I’d bought some locally made fresh linguine and a can of clams, a box of already washed spring salad with lots of baby arugula, and some white wine. In retrospect, I realize I was romancing my friend, trying to seduce her into accepting my … what, choices? Lifestyle? Life?
As night seeps into dense woods, a fire is a lovely thing. It puts the palette all into contrasts and complements: orange against deepening green, bright against dark, motion against stillness. The air slides down from the higher places, chill, but the fire’s warmth holds it at bay. Its vital pulse and flicker promises warmth, food, light, companionship. There is no appliance, no computer or TV or microwave or lamp, with comparable powers and assurances.
Dear Cat got it. She really did. She fell into the spell, and as I tended the fire and the pasta we talked as we hadn’t in years. Neither of us was by any means a mate-seeking single—we scorned that trope—but we both thought that eventually we’d like to be with one person and explore the depths of intimacy rather than the range of options.
When the mosquitoes drove us into the tent, I lit candles and a gas lantern and we had a truly delicious dinner. We killed the bottle of wine, and Cat produced a little bottle of brandy. After a couple of toasts, she looked drowsy—she’d had a long day, what with the drive—so we laid out her bedding. Then we both needed to use the “outhouse.” It proved complex in the pitch dark. We both were unsteady, so we stumbled and thrashed through the undergrowth. And it’s impossible to hold a flashlight when you’re using both hands to stabilize yourself and manage your clothing, so I went with her to assist with lighting. Then she did the same for me. Not much privacy. Lots of mosquitoes. The whole exercise took probably twenty minutes. We were in absolute stitches throughout.
When we got
