The next afternoon after the diner had closed, I headed over to Maxwell Farms with a slice of walnut cake as thick as my bicep riding shotgun. Mountain laurel and spiky chokeberry trees dotted the woods, and here and there the pines thinned enough to get a glimpse of the rocky stone below the surface.
I bounced along, humming a very specific song from Grease, feeling the sun bake into my bones through the windows. I felt a little like I was on a field trip, heading up to see the farm with the rest of my class. But this time I’d be escorted around by the farmer himself.
The very cute farmer.
This would be the time to elaborate on my farmer fantasy. I read the Little House books cover to cover when I was a child, over and over again. I loved everything about this little family, and their struggles with pioneer life. I’d marvel at the fact that Ma and Pa left Laura and Mary alone, on the prairie, while they went to town . . . for hours! They were six and eight years old, and they were building fires, milking cows, and sewing on their nine-block quilts! That was free-range parenting at its finest.
When I got a little older, I’d pile onto the old couch with my mom and watch reruns of the Little House TV series, booing at Nellie Oleson and wondering what it must be like to have a Pa who would cry at the drop of a hat.
And then somewhere around season six, a certain blond farmer made his appearance and changed Laura’s life, and little Miss Roxie Callahan’s life as well. He was my first crush. Almanzo was strong, and lean, and cute as a button, and I sighed along with Laura whenever he drove his buggy through town. Even as an adult, if I was flipping through the channels late at night and an episode of Little House was on, I’d watch long enough to see if Almanzo was going to show up. And if he did . . .
Let’s just say that if I was driving my buggy alone that night, he was a helpful addition.
And in tonight’s fantasy, ladies and gentlemen, the part of Almanzo Wilder will be played by Leo Maxwell.
I shivered a little as I bounced along over the potholes toward the Maxwell Farm. Mmm, bouncing . . . more daydream fuel . . .
An enormous sign stretched across the driveway, proclaiming that I had arrived at Maxwell Farms. Stone pillars on either side held up the old oak beams spelling out the family name. It’d been here as long as I could remember. I suppose when you have more money than practically everyone, a simple name on a mailbox just isn’t enough.
The property was fronted by the rural highway, and once you turned down the driveway you were enveloped in a tunnel of trees, planted to feel majestic yet protective. It was an impression, that’s for sure. Tremendous live oaks, soaring proud and tall and arching across the drive toward their friends on the other side, their branches tangled together, shaking little acorn hands and making sure the sun was dappled and soft below. Signs appeared intermittently, pointing the way toward other destinations on the property. Hiking trails, turn left. English maze, head straight. Pond, turn right here. I stayed on the main road, marveling at how large the property was. It was a whole other world, living back behind this green tunnel that separated the real world from this rich one.