Gon' Country....for Good Reason

Was living the "simple life" all weekend, a la Paris Hilton and Lionel Richie's little girl. Okay, far from how they did it, actually, being that the leash Hilton's dog wears cost more than what I make in a year, I'd imagine. Maybe not, but you get the point.

I was in upstate New York, all day Saturday and pretty much all day today (Sunday), staying at my dad's 17 acres of farmland. It's his pride-and-joy, a sanctuary for the hard-as-hell-working man to retreat on weekends, enjoying peace, quiet, scenery, animals, and missing-teeth locals. But its certainly added some years on to his life, so for that I'm a passionate lover of what Hobart, New York has to offer my pops.

This is a yeary thing for us....though, I wish I could do it more than one-weekend-a-year. Just that, schedules rarely coincide. I know it means bunches to him when somebody, anybody rolls with him. Alone, which is how he visits pretty much every weekend, is fun only to a point. Sure, he's befriended tons of locals, and just the fact that he's physically there puts his mind and heart at ease. But he's awfully proud of the lot, and loves sharing its many quaint pleasures with family and friends. So it sort-a breaks my heart knowing that I can't go with him more often. But thus is the way of life, I guess.

I'd been trying to make this weekend happen all summer. Sucks that it took 'til mid-October to finally arrange, but in a way, it all worked out for the best, since my brother and sis-in-law decided to tag along, bringing my niece and nephew. Making for even-better times, naturally.

Gianna riding her lil' Barbie four-wheel-quad around the wide stretches of grass. G and my dad watching the "fishies" swimming across the brook. Nicholas getting shook sby a donkey suddenly belting out a "hee-haw!" Gianna holding on for dear life to Uncle Matt's left arm as my dad drove us over bumpy-grassland in his beloved Mule, which is basically a tricked-out golfcart used to commute around the hills and vast property.

Great times had by all. Yeah, Gianna has her "diva in training" moments, and Nick lets out some brutally-deafening cries when he's tired. But I wouldn't have traded this weekend for anything this busy world has to offer.

Peace, quiet, family, fun, money-not-necessary enjoyment. A fine way to spend a couple of days, I must say.

The experience send my mental back a few years, too. Back to the summer of 2004. The summer when I scored my first magazine feature story---a q&a article for KING, during my intern days, with Coral from MTV's The Real World galaxy of how-the-fuck-are-these-people-stars? As a result of this assignment, my green-behind-the-lobes mug graced the does-anybody-actually-read-this-anyway Contributor's Page. Which was a pretty big deal for me.

Even more so for my parents. Part of me wished that this crowning achievement didn't come hand-in-hand with a somewhat sexual-interview and Coral's tig-ol-bitties plastered all around the story. But whatever. Their son's face was featured in a national magazine, and it sort-of legitimized the profession I'd chosen and they'd yet to fully comprehend.

'Til this moment, I couldn't tell whether my 'rental units fully approved of me being an entertainment scribe. They were just happy that I was happy, sure. And I'm the first person in my family to pursue a truly-desired career and fulfill the dream, after graduating from a major university. So the pedigree for parental-pride was in place. But still, the fact that I was working at a magazine that would be otherwise foreign to mom and dad was stained my dome.

That is, until the weekend in '04 that I hit the farm with pops. That first morning, he brought me to his favorite little breakfast nook, The Coffee Pot. Where all the locals gather for damn-good omelettes and pancakes. Seriously, that shit rivals IHOP in taste factors. Always hits the spot, as it did this morning, in fact.

We walked in, my dad introduced me to the owner/cook, and this unexpected look of "It's him!" overtook his grill (facial one, not the burning-hot maker of delish sausage patties). Then he pointed to the back wall, where bulletins were posted and fliers were seen. Up on the top right corner was my Contributor's Page, tacked right next to an announcement for some Scarecrow Festival in the works for Halloween (don't know what a Scarecrow Fest is exactly, but sounds like sweetness to me).

Imagine my shock. How in the fuck would these kind-hearted hicks and yokels even know what KING Mag is, let alone cut out the Contrib's Page in my honor? Then it dawned on me....my dad, in pure pride and secondary accomplishment, had told his new neighbors what I'd done. He didn't think my job was lame, or foolish, or confusing, or poorly chosen.

That was the instance where my career path felt legit. Right. Understood. Appreciated. By those who matter most to me, and for whom I've pretty much done everything I've ever been able to. Just to make them proud.

Mission was accomplished. Still is, matter of fact.

I'm still a city-dude at heart, will be forever. But I'd be lying if I said that Hobart, New York, doesn't hold a secure, spotlight-positioned-above spot in my red organ.