The Bucolic Plague: How Two Manhattanites Became Gentlemen Farmers: An Unconventional Memoir Read Online Free PDF Page A

They must teach that in real estate school. Look ’em in the eye. Don’t let ’em get away.
    “Hi there,” she sang. “Doug and Garth told me all about you.” That’s a good sign, I thought. We’re already a gear in the local rumor mill. Up close, it was hard to tell Michelle’s age. She could have been anywhere from thirty to sixty—another common real estate trait. “What do you think?” she continued. “Pretty impressive, huh?”
    Impressive, yes. Attainable, no. Part of me felt horrible for having brought her out here. Having moved around so much in my life, I think that leading on a real estate agent adds some of the deepest chinks to one’s karma.
    “It’s nice,” Brent said, poker-faced. “Can we get inside?”
    “Sure, that’s why I’m here.” Michelle smiled. “Follow me around to the side entrance.”
    As we walked across the yard, Michelle told us much of the same history that we’d learned from the sign out front. Stepping under the ancient maples made me feel historic myself. Old Judge Beekman probably planted these trees with his own hands.
    Michelle jiggled the keys in the lock. The door looked to be new or at least well taken care of. I’d expected to see the real flaws of such an old house once we got up close. But like Michelle’s face, it appeared timeless. Almost new.
    “There we go,” Michelle said, swinging open the side door and stepping aside for us to enter. “Most people come in this side door,” she continued. “It enters directly into the library.”
    I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was just like Williamsburg. Everything I could see had been restored to its original state—or even better, if that’s possible. The library had bright yellow wallpaper and ebony floors that shone so brightly that the view from the windows reflected off them. The windows looked to be original too, with wavy uneven glass. At the far side of the room were built-in bookshelves on either side of an ornate, carved arch that led to another large, bright room—probably the formal living room.
    There wasn’t a speck of dust or cobweb in sight. The ancient house smelled like lemon-scented Pledge. Everything sparkled: the brass chandeliers, the wavy old panes in the windows. The only sign of negligence was the smattering of dead flies underneath each and every window. Michelle caught me looking at them.
    “Even though the owner rarely visits, there is a housekeeper who comes once a week,” she explained. “Perhaps the vacuum is broken.” She quickly changed the subject. “There are seven fireplaces—all in working order. Two of them are completely original, and the others were rebuilt in their original locations.” As she narrated the way through the first floor, I had a hard time listening. There were incredible details everywhere that diverted my attention.
    “This center hall is over fifteen feet wide,” she went on. “As you can see, it runs the entire length of the house, with exits at the front door and onto the wraparound porch. There is a second hall just like it directly upstairs.”
    Everything in the house looked as if it must have looked on the day that William Beekman and his family moved in. I could tell that the wallpaper and paint choices had been meticulously researched, as were the hardware on the doors, which also looked to be original. The swooping banister on the main stairway in the center hall was carved out of a single piece of cherry wood, according to Michelle. As I ran my hand across its perfectly smooth surface, she confirmed that it too was original. It had been found in the barn while the previous owners were doing the renovation.
    “Who were the previous owners?” I asked, thinking that whoever they were, they were flush enough to spend far more than a million dollars renovating a house they were willing to sell for only a million dollars.
    “They live down in the city,” Michelle answered. “Or at least the widow does. This renovation was really