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

By Susan McCorkindale

It's been 4 years on account that Susan's husband dragged her kicking and screaming from their cozy, large urban East Coast existence to a farm in Virginia farm animals state. Susan's adjusting as most sensible she will, which isn't effortless contemplating she's been recognized 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 superb.

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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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IN THIS BOOK I close the circle of family stories in which my father occupied only a few pages, but lived between every line. In my first book, I tried to honor my mother for raising me in the deprivations he caused. In my second, I built from the mud up the maternal grandfather and folk hero who protected my mother from my father, but died before I was born, leaving us to him. In this last book, I do not rewrite my father, or whitewash him. But over a lifetime I have known a lot of men in prisons, men who will spend their eternity paying for their worst minute on earth.

He said, ‘Hell, I was serious. ’ But I giggled again. ” She has tried to forget so much it seems odd to try to remember. But she can still see him pushing himself up to his knees for a little dignity. For a second, just a second, he faced her on one knee, just like in a storybook. “I mean it, goddammit,” he said. His face was bright, burning red. ” HE WAS NOT A MARRYING MAN. The old men laughed at him, all duded up with that oil bucket in his hand, but the women loved his face. Even men—men so afraid of appearing feminine they would walk a wide loop around the unmentionables in Sears to avoid being in proximity of a panty—would concede that, yeah, that Charles Bragg was a good-looking man.

His ears and Adam’s apple were too big but his hands were as small and delicate as a woman’s, yet strong as wire pliers, like his daddy’s had been. He talked country but dressed for town, as all the boys from the mill village did back then, a hybrid hillbilly with silver dimes flashing in his black penny loafer shoes. He chain-smoked Pall Malls and toted a thin, yellow-handled knife in his left hip pocket, so he could get at it, quick. He hid a snub-nosed pistol at the small of his back, but only on the weekends, and never when he was with her.

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